Emotions and Feelings

Am I a god? I see so clearly!

The spirits that I summoned up I now can’t rid myself of.

Seeking with the soul the land of the Greeks.

Who ne’er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne’er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 3

Who ne’er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne’er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 3

No voice divine the storm allayed, When, snatched from all effectual aid, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more.

O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?

O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?

I praise the Frenchman [La Bruyère], his remark was shrewd— How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat Whom I may whisper—solitude is sweet.

I praise the Frenchman [La Bruyère], his remark was shrewd— How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat Whom I may whisper—solitude is sweet.

His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock it never is at home.

A fool must now and then be right, by chance.

Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.

What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 5 And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of humankind 3 pass by.

They please, are pleas’d, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 2

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.

Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravel’d fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is Death, by brisking about the life.