Quotes to inspire and reflect

Dosn’t thou ’ear my ’erse’s legs, as they canters awaäy? Proputty, proputty, proputty—that’s what I ’ears ’em saäy.

 

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

 

The worst is yet to come.

 

More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

 

From the great deep to the great deep he goes.

 

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d Among the mountains by the winter sea.

 

And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge: The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And God fulfills himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

 

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, The months will add themselves and make the years, The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn.

 

I found Him in the shining of the stars, I mark’d Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not.

 

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat.

 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

 

For man is man and master of his fate.

 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.

 

Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King— Else, wherefore born?

 

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

 

Man’s word is God in man.

 

Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan.

 

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

 

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

 

Gorgonized me from head to foot, With a stony British stare.

 

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone.

 

And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!

 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, Dead perfection, no more.

 

For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

 

Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.

 

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley’d and thunder’d.

 

Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.

 

Someone had blundered.

 

“Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismay’d?

 

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall’n at length, that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

 

Speak no more of his renown. Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him.

 

Bury the Great Duke With an empire’s lamentation.

 

The last great Englishman is low.

 

One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.

 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring’d with the azure world he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky!

 

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds.

 

Fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law.

 

So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be.

 

O Sorrow, wilt Thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife.

 

Nature, red in tooth and claw.

 

The great world’s altar-stairs, That slope through darkness up to God.

 

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.