Quotes to inspire and reflect

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Already with thee! tender is the night.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O, for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk.

Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose, Blendeth its odour with the violet,— Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot.

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.

The music, yearning like a God in pain.

Asleep in lap of legends old.

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, And went all naked to the hungry shark; For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings.

Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

Let the mad poets say whate’er they please Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, As a real woman, lineal indeed From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is—Love, forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust.

A virgin purest lipp’d, yet in the lore Of love deep learned to the red heart’s core.

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz’d, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven!

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

We have imagined for the mighty dead.

But strength alone though of the Muses born Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchers Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs And thorns of life; forgetting the great end Of poesy, that it should be a friend To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power; ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed.

The poetry of earth is never dead.

And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings _____ ? Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven.

So here hath been dawning Another blue Day: Think wilt thou let it Slip useless away.

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs.

Best and brightest, come away!

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead— When the cloud is scattered The rainbow’s glory is shed.

Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure.

Swiftly walk o’er the western wave, Spirit of Night!

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight!

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, 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.

The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven’s light forever shines, earth’s shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments—Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!

He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely.