O lyric love! half angel half bird

Our aspirations are our possibilities.

Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also

I was ever a fighter, so---one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, and bade me creep past.

What youth deemed crystal,age finds out was dew

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.

This world's no blot for us, Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

It is the glory and good of Art That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth - to mouths like mine, at least.

Grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.

A minute’s success pays the failure of years.

What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity

Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern - Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

Smiling the boy fell dead.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

A lion may die of an ass's kick.

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her

Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, "Italy".

The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven— All's right with the world!

I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.

As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.

But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.

Women hate a debt as men a gift.

My whole life long I learn'd to love, This hour my utmost art I prove. And speak my passion—— heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!

Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.

Ignorance is not innocence but sin.

When the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something.

Love, hope, fear, faith - these make humanity; These are its sign and note and character

God is the perfect poet.

What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?

Without love, our earth is a tomb

In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.

On a day like today I am stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.

If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing god invents

Who hears music, feels his solitude Peopled at once.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!

How sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet

Love is the energy of life.

I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and become yours forever.

Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.

I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

Things are as they are. Looking out into it the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.

But the attitude of faith is to let go, and become open to truth, whatever it might turn out to be.

We cannot be more sensitive to pleasure without being more sensitive to pain.

What the devil is the point of surviving, going on living, when it's a drag? But you see, that's what people do.

How is it possible that a being with such sensitive jewels as the eyes, such enchanted musical instruments as the ears, and such fabulous arabesque of nerves as the brain can experience itself anything less than a god.

You and I are all as much continuous with the physical universe as a wave is continuous with the ocean.