Quotes

There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know. 3

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.

When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin… in the dust, in the cool tombs.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round.

And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.

A batter’d, wreck’d old man, Thrown on this savage shore, far from home, Pent by the sea and dark rebellious brows, twelve dreary months, Sore, stiff with many toils, sicken’d and nigh to death, I take my way along the island’s edge, Venting a heavy heart.

The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ the building!

All human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers, And I become the other dreamers.

Why is there always a secret singing When a lawyer cashes in? Why does a hearse horse snicker Hauling a lawyer away?

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, But Shadwell 5 never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

I am she who adorn’d herself and folded her hair expectantly, My truant lover has come, and it is dark.

Tempt not a desperate man.

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit.

And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.

A noiseless patient spider, I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar. Let me pry loose old walls. Let me lift and loosen old foundations.

It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

Wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.

Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man.

One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora.

Had I but died an hour before this chance I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant, There’s nothing serious in mortality, All is but toys; renown and grace is dead, The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.