A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal
A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to
cheer it’s own solitude with sweet sounds.
Death is here and death is there,
Death is busy every where,
All round, within, beneath,
Above is death and we are death.
First our pleasures die – and then
Our hopes, and then our fears – and when
These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust – and we die too.
He was a coward to the strong :
He was a tyrant to the weak.
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
and the stars are shining bright.
I have drunken deep of joy,
And I will taste no other wine tonight.
Life like a dome of manycoloured glass
Stains the white radiance of Eternity.
Life may change, but it may fly not;
Hope may vanish, but can die not;
Truth be veiled, but still it burneth;
Love repulsed, but it returneth !
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught.
Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments
of the happiest and best minds.
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes what’re it touches.
Roseleaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.