Emotions and Feelings

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after.

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

What is the end of fame? ’tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor.

Sweet is revenge—especially to women.

’Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home; ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here’s a double health to thee! Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate.

I had a dream which was not all a dream.

Lord of himself—that heritage of woe.

The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington To make man blush there was but one!

I die—but first I have possess’d, And come what may, I have been bless’d.

Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday!

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.

’Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone—man with his God must strive.

The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence.

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter’d its rank breath, nor bow’d To its idolatries a patient knee.

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind.

He who ascends to mountaintops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.

He who ascends to mountaintops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.

Did ye not hear it?—No! ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.

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