Quotes to inspire and reflect

Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Oh wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us,

An’ there began a lang digression About the lords o’ the creation.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar Showed him the gentleman an’ scholar.

On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be, He’s just—nae better than he should be.

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire, That’s a’ the learning I desire.

The social, friendly, honest man, Whate’er he be, ’Tis he fulfills great Nature’s plan, And none but he!

From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, “An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”

He wales a portion with judicious care; And “Let us worship God” he says, with solemn air.

Nature’s law, That man was made to mourn.

Man’s inhumanity to man. Makes countless thousands mourn!

The best laid schemes o’ mice and men Gang aft a-gley.

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union.

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle!

I am sure this Jesus will not do Either for Englishman or Jew.

Both read the Bible day and night, But thou read’st black where I read white.

This life’s dim windows of the soul Distorts the heavens from pole to pole And leads you to believe a lie When you see with, not through, the eye. 2

The vision of Christ that thou dost see Is my vision’s greatest enemy.

England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?

He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars; General good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and flatterer: For art and science cannot exist but in minutely organized particulars.

Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven, I oft have wish’d for Hell for ease from Heaven.

Great things are done when men and mountains meet; This is not done by jostling in the street.

The Angel that presided o’er my birth Said, “Little creature, formed of joy and mirth, Go love without the help of any thing on earth.”

God Appears and God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night, But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

The harlot’s cry from street to street Shall weave old England’s winding sheet.

He who doubts from what he sees Will ne’er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt They’d immediately go out.

The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.

Man was made for joy and woe, And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.

He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.

He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov’d by men.

A truth that’s told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent.

A dog starv’d at his master’s gate Predicts the ruin of the state.

A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage.

To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour.

There is a smile of love, And there is a smile of deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet.

Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau. Mock on, mock on—’tis all in vain! You throw the sand against the wind, And the wind blows it back again.

And throughout all eternity I forgive you, you forgive me.

I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow.

My specter around me night and day Like a wild beast guards my way. My emanation far within Weeps incessantly for my sin.

My mother groan’d! my father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt: Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor; And Mercy no more could be, If all were as happy as we.

In every cry of every man, In every infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

But most through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot’s curse Blasts the newborn infant’s tear And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Little Fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.