Grow old along with me the best is yet to be.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
The moment eternal - just that and no more - When ecstasy's utmost we clutch at the core While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut, and lips meet!
To do good thing in the world first you must know who you are and what gives meaning to your life.
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.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
Take away love and our earth is a tomb.
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.
Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts.
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.
Whats the earth With all its art verse music worth - Compared with love found gained and kept.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
You should not take a fellow eight years old and make him swear to never kiss the girls.
Days decrease – and autumn grows, autumn in everything.
God is the perfect poet.
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's a heaven for?
Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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.
Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.
So, fall asleep love, loved by me... for I know love, I am loved by thee.
A minute's success pays the failure of years.
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.
But how carve way i' the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?
Love, hope, fear, faith – these make humanity; These are its sign and note and character.
Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
Ah but a mans reach should exceed his grasp - or whats a heaven for.
I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.
Faultless to a fault.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!
'Tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do.
White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so: life's business being just the terrible choice.
I count life just a stuff to try the soul's strength on.
Who hears music, feels his solitude peopled at once.
Love is energy of life.
It is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.
There is no truer truth obtainable by man than comes of music.
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away.
