A kiss is but a kiss now and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.
A kiss is but a kiss now and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.
We are sons of yesterday, not of the morning. The past is our mortal mother, no dead thing. Our future constantly reflects her to the soul.
Peace can I achieve,
By turning to this fountain-source of woe,
This woman, who's to Love as fire to wood?
My soul is arrowy to the light in you.
Then if we study Nature we are wise.
I hear my oracle of Medicine say.
The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere.
Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear!
Implacable they shine
To us who would of Life obtain
An answer for the life we strain
To nourish with one sign.
Cynicism is intellectual dandyism.
Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.
Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath,
Life glistens on the river of the death.
Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
. . . the task of reclaiming a bad man is extremely seductive to good women.
So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love!
Of love, the grand impulsion, we behold
The love that lends her grace
Among the starry fold.
O have a care of natures that are mute!
January was watering and freezing old earth by turns . . .
Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul when hot for certainties in this our life!
The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.
Constantly just to herself, mind This is the quality of true passion.
Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful!
What life was that I lived?
The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
Passions spin the plot; We are betrayed by what is false within.
To hope, and not be impatient, is really to believe.
Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.
Bring the army of the faithful through.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories