Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart.
A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Music, When Soft Voices DieMusic, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glassStains the white radiance of Eternity,Until Death tramples it to fragments.- Adonais
The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?
O weep for Adonis – He is dead. Peace. He is not dead he doth not sleep – he hath wakened from the dream of life