Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Love is free; to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed; such a vow in both cases excludes us from all inquiry.
Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
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.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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!
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.
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.