Quotes to inspire and reflect

That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it; This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred’s soon hit; This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here—should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find Him.

He ventured neck or nothing—heaven’s success Found, or earth’s failure.

He said, “What’s time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever.”

The instant made eternity— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, forever ride?

In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

Who knows but the world may end tonight?

What’s become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip?

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new! 2

To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up and begin again.

Escape me? Never— Beloved! While I am I, and you are you.

Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it, “Italy.”

Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,

Let’s contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, —Only sleep!

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles.

The Savior at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph’s last garment off.

And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense smoke!

That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the northwest died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay.

Oh, to be in England now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now!

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim: And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three.

It was roses, roses all the way.

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watch from their graves!

One more devils’-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to God!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.

It’s a long lane that knows no turnings.

When the liquor’s out, why clink the cannikin?

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives.

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles.

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together.

Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

She had A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad.

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon.

“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven than now.

Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas.

The year’s at the spring And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn: God’s in his heaven— All’s right with the world.

Everything passes—Robust art Alone is eternal. The bust Survives the city. 1

I have come too late into a world too old. 1

The most despairing songs are the loveliest of all, I know immortal ones composed only of tears.

Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells.

Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of harvest-home; All is safely gathered in, Ere the winter storms begin.