When, when, Peace, will you, Peace?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace?
Under her banner we march for her honour.
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet, Long live the weeds and the wildness yet.
Then next I hungered: Love when here, they say,
Or once or never took love's proper food;
But I must yield the chase, or rest and eat.
The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened.
Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause.
Under her banner we fall for her honour.
The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the headbonny ash that sits over the burn.
Under her banner live for her honour.
Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.
Past, the Past, no more be seen!
Happy the father, mother of these!
What is all this juice and all this joy?
By the by, if the English race had done nothing else, yet if they left the world the notion of a gentleman, they would have done a great service to mankind.
Religion, you know, enters very deep; in reality it is the deepest impression I have in speaking to people, that they are or that they are not of my religion.
I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman's mind to be more like my own than any other man's living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession.
It is a happy thing that there is no royal road to poetry. The world should know by this time that one cannot reach Parnassus except by flying thither.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
Not today we need lament
Your wealth of life is some way spent:
Toil has shed round your head
Silver but for Jubilee.
The child is father to the man.
Look at the stars look, look up at the skies O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there.
Self ' flashes off frame and face.
There's none but truth can stead you.
To man, that needs would worship ' block or barren stone,
Our law says: Love what are ' love's worthiest, were all known;
World's loveliest-men's selves.
Towery city and branchy between towers; Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarm.
Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
O well wept, mother have lost son;
Wept, wife; wept, sweetheart would be one:
Though grief yield them no good
Yet shed what tears sad truelove should.
Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories