Quotes
Quotes about Word
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn.
To those who know thee not, no words can paint!
And those who know thee, know all words are faint!
Here is the whole set! a character dead at every word.
And don't confound the language of the nation
With long-tailed words in osity and ation.
Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on,
Through words and things, a dim and perilous way.
Choice word and measured phrase above the reach
Of ordinary men.
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my tale;
And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail?
The intellectual power, through words and things,
Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
Babylon,
Learned and wise, hath perished utterly,
Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh
That would lament her.
"Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.
Oh, many a shaft at random sent
Finds mark the archer little meant!
And many a word at random spoken
May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken!
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose,--words in their best order; poetry,--the best words in their best order.
Another's sword has laid him low,
Another's and another's;
And every hand that dealt the blow--
Ah me! it was a brother's!
Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone
Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken.
When looks were fond and words were few.
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been,--
A sound which makes us linger; yet--farewell!
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confess
The might, the majesty of loveliness?
Farewell!
For in that word, that fatal word,--howe'er
We promise, hope, believe,--there breathes despair.
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Oh no! we never mention her,--
Her name is never heard;
My lips are now forbid to speak
That once familiar word.
