Quotes to inspire and reflect

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied By a chance bond together.

We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air.

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed.

A solitary sail that rises White in the blue mist on the foam— What is it in far lands it prizes? What does it leave behind at home?

It’s a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes.

When storm-clouds brood on the towering heights

The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, “Some day you may lose them all”— He replied, “Fish fiddle-de-dee!”

When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain,

“I would be your wife most gladly!” (Here she twirled her fingers madly),

There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking—

On the coast of Coromandel Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle—

Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of Swat?

Over the syllabub sea.

Down to the calico tree, And they never came back to me!

Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?” They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose.

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are.”

His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, Leastways if you reckon two thumbs; Long ago he was one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs.

There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said: “It is just as I feared! Two owls and a hen, Four larks and a wren Have all built their nests in my beard.”

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough.

A minute’s success pays the failure of years.

Oh let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper stations.

Out of the wreck I rise.

But little do or can the best of us: That little is achieved through Liberty.

Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I’ll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.

Ignorance is not innocence but sin.

That far land we dream about, Where every man is his own architect.

A secret’s safe ’Twixt you, me, and the gatepost!

A man in armor is his armor’s slave.

You never know what life means till you die: Even throughout life, ’tis death that makes life live, Gives it whatever the significance.

White shall not neutralize the black, nor good Compensate bad in man, absolve him so: Life’s business being just the terrible choice.

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.

Through such souls alone God stooping shows sufficient of His light For us i’ the dark to rise by. And I rise.

All poetry is difficult to read, —The sense of it is, anyhow.

’Twas a thief said the last kind word to Christ: Christ took the kindness and forgave the theft.

That’s all we may expect of man, this side The grave: his good is—knowing he is bad.

’Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken in time, Is better for a bruise than arnica.

O Lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire.

We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold.

How sad and bad and mad it was— But then, how it was sweet!

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face.

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! ’Thinketh, He dwelleth i’ the cold o’ the moon.

The best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy.

Such ever was love’s way: to rise, it stoops.