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If therefore it be a thing external that causes thy grief, know, that it is not that properly that doth cause it, but thine own conceit and opinion concerning the thing: which thou mayest rid thyself of, when thou wilt.
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone — And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone
I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
There’s a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
After great pain a formal feeling comes— The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs; The stiff Heart questions—was it He that bore? And yesterday—or centuries before?
This is the hour of lead Remembered if outlived As freezing persons recollect The snow— First chill, then stupor, then The letting go.
We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.
In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered; “But I like it “Because it is bitter, “And because it is my heart.”
Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart.
I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine
