They ... fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. When love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. I to the world am like a drop of water,That in the ocean seeks another dropYouth no less becomesThe light and careless livery that it wearsThan settled age his sables and his weeds,Importing health and graveness.Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguileMankind owes to the child the best it has to giveGreater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friendsLife seems to be an experience in ascending and descending. You think you're beginning to live for a single aim--for self-development, or the discovery of cosmic truths--when all you're really doing is to move from place to place as if devoted primarily to real estate Some of us who sit upon this platform have many a time been clamored down, and told that we had no right to speak, and that we were out of our place in public meetings; far be it from us, when women assemble, and a man has a thought in his soul, burning for utterance, to retaliate upon him Leaves of the summer, lovely summer's pride, Sweet is the shade below your silent tree, The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. When a lovely flame dies, Smoke gets in your eyes. Thou Fair-haired Angel of the Evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow's mate, Keep all you have of queenliness, Forgetting that you once were slave, And let your full lips laugh at Fate! Moons and years pass by and are gone forever, but a beautiful moment shimmers through life a ray of light. I want to be alone ... I just want to be alone. It was a chilly winter's night; And frost was glitt'ring on the ground, Every morn and every night Some to misery are born. Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. Life--how curious is that habit that makes us think it is not here, but elsewhere. I dreamed as in my bed I lay, All night's fathomless wisdom come, That I had shorn my locks away And laid them on Love's lettered tomb: But something bore them out of sight In a great tumult of the air. A trip through a sewer in a glass-bottomed boat.
And Change with hurried hand has swept these scenes:
What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form there is hope for a tree, if it is cut down, that it will sprout again, and that its shoots will not cease wheres ours?? With empty hands we come; empty handed we go.