429 quotes
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems (1845)
There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
But every climate, every soil,
Must bring its tribute, great or small,
And help to build the wooden wall!
The Building of the Ship (1849)
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
Hyperion (1839)
Art is long, and time is fleeting.
A tender heart; a will inflexible.
Christus (1872)
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie (1847)
What land is this? Yon pretty town
Is Delft, with all its wares displayed:
The pride, the market-place, the crown
And centre of the Potter's trade.
Kéramos, and Other Poems (1878)
All nature, he holds, is a respiration
Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing hereafter
Will inhale it into his bosom again,
So that nothing but God alone will remain.
The Golden Legend (1851)
O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more
Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er!
Christus (1872)
Stars of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us further than to-day.
Voices of the Night (1839)
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Voices of the Night (1839)
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Ballads and Other Poems (1842)
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow
Into the arctic regions of our lives,
Where little else than life itself survives.
Not in the clamour of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
The Poets (1876)
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie (1847)
Thoughts so sudden, that they seem
The revelations of a dream.
Just above yon sandy bar,
As the day grows fainter and dimmer,
Lonely and lovely, a single star
Lights the air with a dusky glimmer.
Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death,
Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee,
That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old!