“All love is sweet Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.”

The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, – but it returneth!

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.

The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.

The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal.

Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.

Love’s very pain is sweet.

A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.

Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?

Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.

But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.

Reason is a very light rider, and easily shook off.

I would steal the sun, if that is what it took to bring the light back into your eyes.

The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

What darkness is to you is light is to me.

Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.

I release my handsfree the reins, as the blood diminishes through my empty veins; allowing life to flow as I go into the light that’s resided in my soul.