Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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.
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
The soul's joy lies in doing.
Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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