I run the gauntlet of a file of doubts,
Each one of which down hurls me to the ground.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
The goodness of the heart is shown in deeds
Of peacefulness and kindness. Hand and heart
Are one thing with the good, as thou should’st be.
Do my words trouble thee? then treasure them,
Pain overgot gives peace, as death doth Heaven.
All things that speak of Heaven speak of peace.
He is a fool who is not for love and beauty. I speak unto the young, for I am of them and always shall be.
Oh, could we lift the future’s sable shroud.
Men might be better if we better deemed of them.
Poetry is itself a thing of God;
He made his prophets poets; and the more
We feel of poesie do we become
Like God in love and power,-under-makers.
Man is one; and he hath one great heart. It is thus we feel, with a gigantic throb athwart the sea, each other’s rights and wrongs; thus are we men.
Sorrow is a stone that crushes a single bearer to the ground, while two are able to carry it with ease.
For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed, So poets live upon the living light.
Where doubt there truth is – ’tis her shadow.
Blest is he whose heart is the home of the great dead and their great thoughts.