Quotes to inspire and reflect

Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

 

“Tirra lirra,” by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.

 

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro’ the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side. “The curse is come upon me,” cried

 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.

 

Many-tower’d Camelot.

 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still.

 

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

 

Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease.

 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

 

Ah, why Should life all labor be?

 

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes.

 

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

 

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

 

Across the walnuts and the wine.

 

No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.

 

I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.

 

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

 

A still small voice spake unto me, “Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?”

 

She said, “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!”

 

There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

 

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. 1

 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

 

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day?

 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past!

 

As if in his tower of ivory, retired before noon. 1

 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

 

Never less alone than when alone.

 

By many a temple half as old as Time.

 

This feat of Tell, the archer, will be told While yonder mountains stand upon their base. By heaven! The apple’s cleft right through the core.

 

Who reflects too much will accomplish little.

 

The mountain cannot frighten one who was born on it.

 

Pain is short, and joy is eternal.

 

There’s no such thing as chance; And what to us seems merest accident Springs from the deepest source of destiny.

 

Against stupidity the very gods Themselves contend in vain. 6

 

If you want to know yourself, Just look how others do it; If you want to understand others, Look into your own heart.

 

Great souls suffer in silence.

 

What one refuses in a minute No eternity will return.

 

O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?

 

World history is the world’s court. 2

 

There are three lessons I would write, Three words as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light Upon the hearts of men.

 

Did you think the lion was sleeping because he didn’t roar?

 

Joy, thou spark from Heav’n immortal, Daughter of Elysium! Drunk with fire, toward Heaven advancing Goddess, to thy shrine we come. Thy sweet magic brings together What stern Custom spreads afar; All men become brothers Where thy happy wing-beats are. 1

 

This thing you see, a bright-colored deceit, displaying all the many charms of art, with false syllogisms of tint and hue is a cunning deception of the eye…

The joke loses everything when the joker laughs himself.

 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small. 1

 

Foolish men who accuse a woman mindlessly— you cannot even see you cause what you abuse.

 

Armed peace.