True love is humble, thereby is it known; Girded for service, seeking not its own; Vaunts not itself, but speaks in self-dispraise.
ABRAHAM COLESO loving woman, man’s fulfillment, sweet, Completing him not otherwise complete! How void and useless the sad remnant left Were he of her, his nobler part, bereft.
More Abraham Coles Quotes
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The power, which in a sense belongs to none, Thus understood belongs to every one.
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On eyes that watch as well as eyes that weep Descends the solemn mystery of sleep, Toiling and climbing to the very close
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Taking our stand on the immovable rock of Christ’s character we risk nothing in saying that the wine of miracle answered to the wine of nature, and was not intoxicating.
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The grave, where sets the orb of being, sets To rise, ascend, and culminate above Eternity’s horizon evermore.
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Through the long lapse of ages, that so there might be An asylum for all in the Land of the Free.
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Words are freeborn, and not the vassals of the gruff tyrants of prose to do their bidding only. They have the same right to dance and sing as the dewdrops have to sparkle and the stars to shine.
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The rapturous touch of some divine surpriseFlash deep suffusion of celestial dyes
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None of the prophets old, So lofty or so bold! No form of danger shakes his dauntless breast; In loneliness sublime
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Where our fathers in fight, nobly strove for the Right, Struck down their fierce foemen or put them to flight
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No counter proof can equal the force of that drawn from His attributes. It is an indecency and a calumny to impute to Christ conduct which requires apology.
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O loving woman, man’s fulfillment, sweet, Completing him not otherwise complete! How void and useless the sad remnant left Were he of her, his nobler part, bereft.
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O, beautiful and grand, My own, my native land! Of thee I boast: Great empire of the west, The dearest and the best, Made up of all the rest, I love thee most.
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Within a bony labrinthean cave, Reached by the pulse of the aerial wave, This sibyl, sweet, and Mystic Sense is found, Muse, that presides o’er all the Powers of Sound.
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Poetry is unfallen speech. Paradise knew no other, for no other would suffice to answer the need of those ecstatic days of innocence.
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Eternity! How know we but we stand On the precipitous and crumbling verge Of Time e’en now, Eternity below?
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