Quotes
Quotes - Coleridge
Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness.
A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware.
A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Lovely was the death Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power, He on the thought-benighted Skeptic beamed Manifest Godhead.
Christmas Eve I saw a stable, low and very bare, A little child in a manger. The oxen knew Him, had Him in their care, To men He was a stranger, The safety of the world was lying there, And the world's danger.
Feast of Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, Martyr, c.155 There can be no end without means; and God furnishes no means that exempt us from the task and duty of joining our own best endeavors. The original stock, or wild olive tree, of our natural powers, was not given to us to be burnt or blighted, but to be grafted on.
Commemoration of Brooke Foss Westcott, Bishop of Durham, Teacher, 1901 Be not afraid to pray... to pray is right. Pray if thou canst with hope; but ever pray Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay. Whatever is good to wish, ask that of heaven; But if for any wish thou darest not pray, Then pray to God to cast that wish away.
Feast of Alfred the Great, King of the West Saxons, Scholar, 899 Commemoration of Cedd, Founding Abbot of Lastingham, Bishop of the East Saxons, 664 Sunshine let it be, or frost, Storm or calm, as Thou shalt choose; Though Thine every gift were lost, Thee Thyself we cannot lose.
An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches in flat countries with spire steeples, which, as they cannot be referred to any other object, point as with silent finger to the sky and stars.
O, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please, Or let the easily persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould Of a friend's fancy.
The Past lives o'er again, In its effects, and to the guilty spirit The ever-frowning Present is its image.
Reviewers are usually people who would have been poets, historians, biographers, etc., if they could: they have tried their talents at one or the other, and have failed; therefore they turn critics.
From his brimstone bed, at break of day, A-walking the Devil is gone, To look at his little snug farm of the world, And see how his stock went on.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve!
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut.
And so, his senses gradually wrapt In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark; That singest like an angel in the clouds.
For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed, And bade it blossom there.
A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
The love light in her eye.
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut.
Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
O what a loud and fearful shriek was there! . . . Ah me! they view'd beneath an hireling's sword Fallen Kosciusco.
Perfect freedom is reserved for the man who lives by his own work and in that work does what he wants to do.
