Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, -- but it returneth.
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
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Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
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Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for songWild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night longSad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps - but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay;
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History is a cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of man.
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If the use of animal food be, in consequence, subversive to the peace of human society, how unwarrantable is the injustice and the barbarity which is exercised toward these miserable victims. They are called into existence by human artifice that they may drag out a short and miserable existence of slavery and disease, that their bodies may be mutilated, their social feelings outraged. It were much better that a sentient being should never have existed, than that it should have existed only to endure unmitigated misery.
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He hath awakened from the dream of life—
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance; if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell the saddest thoughts.
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If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
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Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker, so an unsuccessful author turns critic
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Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
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Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
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A man, to be greatly good, must magine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and in many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears - and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust - and we die too
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One word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it
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Yes, marriage is hateful, detestable. A kind of ineffable, sickening disgust seizes my mind when I think of this most despotic, most unrequite...
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The more we study, the more we discover our ignorance.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.
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The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them....
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Man's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
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I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.
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O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb,
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When hearts have one mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest;...
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