| Quotes |
Topic |
| Butterflies | And many an ante-natal tomb When butterflies dream of the life to come. |
| Clouds | Far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea. |
| Desire | The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow. |
| Despair | No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure. |
| Despair | . . . then black despair The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone. |
| Eagles | Around, around in ceaseless circles wheeling With clangs of wings and scream, the Eagle sailed Incessantly. |
| Eating | Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such ladylike luxuries. |
| Echo | Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief. |
| Eternity | Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity. |
| Eternity | The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow. |
| Familiarity | Familiar acts are beautiful through love. |
| Generosity | Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker. |
| Glowworms | Like a glowworm golden, in a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden its aerial blue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view. |
| Guests | You must come home with me and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do All that is in my power to honour you. |
| History | History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man. |
| Innocence | O, white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Thine awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not! |
| Islands | Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony. |
| Labor | There is no real wealth but the labor of man. |
| Larks | Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skilled to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! |
| Larks | Hail to thee blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. |
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