Emotions and Feelings

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit? Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod? Or Love in a golden bowl?

When the voices of children are heard on the green And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast And everything else is still.

Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief?

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.

Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go.

Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go.

O’er all the hilltops Is quiet now, In all the treetops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt rest. 16

Do you wish to roam farther and farther? See! The Good lies so near. Only learn to seize good fortune, For good fortune’s always here.

Who strives always to the utmost, For him there is salvation. 14

The deed is everything, the glory nothing.

I love those who yearn for the impossible.

I love those who yearn for the impossible.

My peace is gone, My heart is heavy. 12

A true German can’t stand the French, Yet willingly he drinks their wines.

I am the Spirit that always denies! 11

Am I a god? I see so clearly!

Two souls alas! dwell in my breast.

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.