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10 sats \ 15 replies \ @Coinsreporter 24 Apr \ parent \ on: Most comments wins 👀 meta
Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
---Pablo Neruda
There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
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What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let thy voice,
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
---Alfred Tennyson
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For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart:
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.
Alfred Lord Tennyson "In Memoriam A.H.H."
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Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and for ever.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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This melancholy London — I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually.
---W.B. Yeats
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Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before,
But vaster.
---Alfred Tennyson
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Cast a cold eye
on life, on death
Horseman pass by
---W.E. Yeats
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Who can distinguish darkness from the soul?
---William Butler Yeats
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Any fool can fight a winning battle, but it needs character to fight a losing one, and that should inspire us; which reminds me that I dreamed the other night that I was being hanged, but was the life and soul of the party.
----William Butler Yeats
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Pluck thou my flower, Oothoon the mild; Another flower shall spring, because the soul of sweet delight Can never pass away.
----William Blake, The Book of Thel
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To long a sacrifice can make a stone of a heart
---William Butler Yeats
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One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the same day as we do ourselves.
----Philip Larkin
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All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
----William Wordsworth
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