Who hears music, feels his solitude Peopled at once.
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!
How sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
Love is the energy of life.
I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and become yours forever.
Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.
I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.
Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Take away love and our earth is a tomb.
Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
When the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something.
Love, hope, fear, faith - these make humanity; These are its sign and note and character
God is the perfect poet.
What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?
Without love, our earth is a tomb
In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.
On a day like today I am stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.
If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing god invents
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
A lion may die of an ass's kick.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her
Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, "Italy".
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven— All's right with the world!
I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.
As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
Women hate a debt as men a gift.
My whole life long I learn'd to love, This hour my utmost art I prove. And speak my passion—— heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!
What youth deemed crystal,age finds out was dew
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.
A minute’s success pays the failure of years.
This world's no blot for us, Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
It is the glory and good of Art That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth - to mouths like mine, at least.
Grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.
What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity
Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern - Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
Smiling the boy fell dead.
The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit and fire and dew.
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made ...
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
Any nose May ravage with impunity a rose.
The Best Is Yet To Be
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph.
O lyric love! half angel half bird
Our aspirations are our possibilities.
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also
I was ever a fighter, so---one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, and bade me creep past.
Life with all it yields of joy and woe, And hope and fear, Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love, How love might be, hath been indeed, and is.
Why stay we on earth except to grow?
When a man’s busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: ‘Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.
Who was a queen and loved a poet once Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that!
Truth is within ourselves…there is an inmost center in us all..where truth abides in fulness--and to know,rather consists in open out a way whence the imprisoned splendor may escape
Womanliness means only motherhood; All love begins and ends there.
A man's reach should exceed his grasp
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declin'd, one more foot-path ontrod, One more devil's triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
What if all's appearance? Is not outside seeming real as substance inside? Both are facts, so leave me dreaming.
God made all the creatures and them our love and out fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or else what's a heaven for?
I find earth not gray but rosy; Heaven not grim but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy; Do I stand and stare? All's blue.
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be.
