Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar.
Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; men love in haste but they detest at leisure.
In secret we met –
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? –
With silence and tears
The lapse of ages changes all things – time – language – the earth – the bounds of the sea – the stars of the sky, and everything ‘about, around, and underneath’ man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence.
We are all the fools of time and terror: DaysSteal on us and steal from us; yet we live,Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
Gwynned lies two days westwards; still further south, the weregeld calls. Mayhap with All-Father Woden’s favour, my deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
Think’st thou existence doth depend on time?It doth; but actions are our epochs: mineHave made my days and nights imperishable,Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,Innumerable atoms; and one desert,Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think; ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the starsDid wander darkling in the eternal space.
Time! On whose arbitrary wingThe varying hours must flag or fly,Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,But drag or drive us on to die
Between two worlds life hovers like a star ’Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge.How little do we know that which we are! How less what we may be! The eternal surgeOf time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles. As the old burst, new emerge,Lash’d from the foam of ages; while the gravesOf empires heave but like some passing waves.
There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.