Quotes to inspire and reflect

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.

Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground.

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.

A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour!

Gone—glimmering through the dream of things that were.

War, war is still the cry, “War even to the knife!” 3

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 2

Vex’d with mirth the drowsy ear of night.

Had sigh’d to many, though he loved but one.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!

Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.

With just enough of learning to misquote.

A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure—critics all are ready-made.

’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print; A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in ’t.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

I only know we loved in vain; I only feel—farewell! farewell!

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove.

“Friendship is Love without his wings!”

And joyless, if not shared with him!

Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips.

What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hope decay; I never loved a tree or flower, But ’twas the first to fade away. I never nurs’d a dear gazelle To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die.

Some banquet hall deserted, And all but he departed.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The words of love then spoken; The cheerful hearts now broken.

And folly’s all they’ve taught me.

The light that lies In woman’s eyes, Has been my heart’s undoing.

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 1

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him. His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou would’st still be ador’d as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

But there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor’d his relics are laid.

Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Who first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down?

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

A poet lies, or that which once seemed he— Oh, lift a thought in prayer for S.T.C.! That he, who many a year, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death.

I counted two and seventy stenches, All well defined, and several stinks.

Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing— And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree.

With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots.

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks.

Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud— We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light.