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| But when the melancholy fit shall fall / Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, / That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, / And hides the green hill in an April shroud; / Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. |
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| Call the world if you please `The Vale of Soul-making'. |
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| Deep in the shady sadness of a vale / Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, / Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, / Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. |
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| Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: we know her woof, her texture; she is given in the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, conquer all mysteries by rule and line, empty the haunted air, and gnome mine unweave a rainbow. |
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| Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul? |
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| Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience. Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some |
| Experience; Failure |
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| Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers |
| Positive thinking; Seasons |
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| Fame like a wayward girl, will still be coy - To those who woo her with too slavish knees |
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| Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect |
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| For sure so fair a place was never seen; Of all that ever charmed romantic eye. |
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| Four seasons fill the measure of the year; / There are four seasons in the mind of man. |
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| Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. |
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| Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that --one is sure to get into some mess before evening. |
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| God of the golden bow, / And of the golden lyre, / And of the golden hair, / And of the golden fire, / Charioteer / Of the patient year, / Where - where slept thine ire? |
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| Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; / Enough their simple loveliness for me. |
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| He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead. |
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| He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,/ In Provence called `La belle dame sans merci'. |
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| Health is my expected heaven. |
| Health |
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