Quotes

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too.

I drink to the general joy of the whole table.

So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God or Devil.

Past hope, past cure, past help!

Beauty is momentary in the mind— The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.

We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My lifeblood seemed to sip.

What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble.

His tribe were God Almighty’s gentlemen.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death’s ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence!

Nor is the people’s judgment always true: The most may err as grossly as the few.

Apothecary: My poverty, but not my will, consents. Romeo: I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

The hornèd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.

Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.

Of ancient race by birth, but nobler yet In his own worth.

I am the man, I suffer’d, I was there.

She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.

Made still a blund’ring kind of melody; Spurr’d boldly on, and dash’d through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in. Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

Of twenty men.

Poetry is the subject of the poem.

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.

Macbeth: What is the night? Lady Macbeth: Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

For every inch that is not fool is rogue.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments.