The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?
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.
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.
How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies, no longer tameless then, To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail!
Soul meets soul on lovers lips.
Our sweetest songs are those of saddest thought.
God is an hypothesis, and, as such, stands in need of proof: the onus probandi rests on the theist.
God is represented as infinite, eternal, incomprehensible; he is contained under every predicate in non that the logic of ignorance could fabricate.
The being called God...bears every mark of a veil woven by philosophical conceit, to hide the ignorance of philosophers even from themselves. They borrow the threads of its texture from the anthropomorphism of the vulgar.
In fact, the truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
Music, When Soft Voices Die Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted
I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me- who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
When soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
He wanders, like a day-appearing dream, Through the dim wildernesses of the mind; Through desert woods and tracts, which seem Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.
