Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, – as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!
Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
Truth is powerful and it prevails.
There’s not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow’r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman’s tongue; A string which hath no discord.
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
Those are the same stars, and that is the same moon, that look down upon your brothers and sisters, and which they see as they look up to them, though they are ever so far away from us, and each other.
We do as much, we eat as much, we want as much.
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.