You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
Women know the way to rear up children (to be just). They know a simple, merry, tender knack of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, and stringing pretty words that make no sense. And kissing full sense into empty words.
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, Let no one be called happy till his death; to which I would add, Let no one, till his death be called unhappy.
Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.
He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
And wilt thou have me fashion into speechThe love I bear thee, finding words enough,And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,Between our faces, to cast light on each? -I dropt it at thy feet. I cannot teachMy hand to hold my spirits so far offFrom myself--me--that I should bring thee proofIn words, of love hid in me out of reach.Nay, let the silence of my womanhoodCommend my woman-love to thy belief, -Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,And rend the garment of my life, in brief,By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.
Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.We sit beside the headstone thus,And wish that name were carved for us.The moss reprints more tenderlyThe hard types of the mason's knife,As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's lifeWith which we're tired, my heart and I ....In this abundant earth no doubtIs little room for things worn out:Disdain them, break them, throw them by!And if before the days grew roughWe once were loved, used, - well enough,I think, we've fared, my heart and I.
Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death.
Our Euripides the human,With his droppings of warm tears,and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
You're something between a dream and a miracle.
If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.
I think it frets the saints in heaven to seeHow many desolate creatures on the earthHave learnt the simple dues of fellowshipAnd social comfort, in a hospital.
What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed -- and not for pay? Absurd -- or insincere?
The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.
He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.
Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor's done.
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