Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.
how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
The heavens and earth stay as they were; my heart Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
I would have rummaged, ransacked at the word; Those old odd corners of an empty heart; For remnants of dim love the long disused, And dusty crumbling of romance!
God is the perfect poet.
Love is energy of life.
Truth never hurts the teller.
Love, hope, fear, faith - these make humanity These are its sign and note and character.
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so: life's business being just the terrible choice.
If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.
Less is more.
A minute's success pays the failure of years.
Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beast's God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be.
The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
Make no more giants, God!But elevate the race at once!
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