Emotions and Feelings

The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, Met his own image walking in the garden, That apparition, sole of men, he saw.

Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep—that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The “good old times”—all times when old are good— Are gone.

He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? I judge but by the fruits—and they are bitter— Which I must feed on for a fault not mine.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so.”

Society is now one polish’d horde, Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Not so Leonidas and Washington, Whose every battlefield is holy ground, Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’Tis that I may not weep.

The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free.

Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae.

In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others, all she loves is love.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication.

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

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

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!