The saddest thing that befalls a soul
Is when it loses faith in God and woman.
We hear the wail of the remorseful winds
In their strange penance. And this wretched orb
Knows not the taste of rest; a maniac world,
Homeless and sobbing through the deep she goes.
The soul of man is like the rolling world,
One half in day, the other dipt in night;
The one has music and the flying cloud,
The other, silence and the wakeful stars.
The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.
I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know, are told
Not to thy credit!
We may live without poetry, music and art;
We may live without conscience and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilized man can not live without cooks.
He may live without books,--what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope--what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love,--what is passion but pining?
But where is the man that can live without dining?
The man who seeks one thing in life and but one
May hope to achieve it before life is done;
But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes
Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows
A harvest of barren regrets.
Let any man show the world that he feels
Afraid of its bark and 't will fly at his heels:
Let him fearlessly face it, 't will leave him alone:
But 't will fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone.
Art is Nature made by Man
To Man the interpreter of God.
Oh, moment of sweet peril, perilous sweet!
When woman joins herself to man.
Tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings.
An honest God is the noblest work of man.
Every man is the center of a circle, whose fatal circumference he can not pass.
Did you ever have the measels, and if so, how many?
He is dreadfully married. "He's the most married man I ever saw in my life."
The majesty
That from man's soul looks through his eager eyes.
Nothing but the infinite Pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of human life.
So, lest I be inclined
To render ill for ill,--
Henceforth in me instil,
O God, a sweet good-will
To all mankind.
Barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.
Somewhere--in desolate wind-swept space--
In Twilight-land--in No-man's land--
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.
"And who are you?" cried one, agape,
Shuddering in the gloaming light.
"I know not," said the second Shape,
"I only died last night."
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates,
Named of the four winds, North, South, East and West;
Portals that lead to an enchanted land...
Here, it is written, Toil shall have its wage
And Honor honor, and the humblest man
Stand level with the highest in the law.
Of such a land have men in dungeons dreamed
And with the vision brightening in their eyes
Gone smiling to the fagot and the sword.
O Liberty, white Goddess! is it well
To leave the gates unguarded? On thy breast
Fold Sorrow's children, soothe the hurts of Fate,
Lift the down-trodden, but with hand of steel
Stay those who to thy sacred portals come
To waste the gifts of Freedom.
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit,
That he's an Englishman!
For he might have been a Rooshian
A French or Turk or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an.
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman.
I love my fellow-creatures, I do all the good I can,
Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man
And I can't think why!