Grow old along with me The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made Our times are in his hand who saith, A whole I planned, Youth shows but half trust God See all, nor be afraid
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'You're wounded!' 'Nay,' his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:...
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Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
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O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.
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That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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Fear death? - to feel the fog in my throat, / The mist in my face.
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I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.
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I would have rummaged, ransacked at the word; Those old odd corners of an empty heart; For remnants of dim love the long disused, And dusty crumbling of romance!
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Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made:
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If two lives join, there is oft a scar, / They are one and one, with a shadowy third; / One near one is too far.
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Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.
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O lover of my life, O soldier-saint.
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Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for
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For note, when evening shuts, / A certain moment cuts / The deed off, calls the glory from the grey.
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I watched my foolish heart expand / In the lazy glow of benevolence, / O'er the various modes of man's belief.
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Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod
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I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.
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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! / Just such a face!
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Ages past the soul existed, / Here an age 'tis resting merely.
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By this time he has tested his first plough, / And studied his last chapter of St John.
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I despise and abhor the pleas on behalf of that infamous practice, vivisection... I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured to death on the pretense of sparing me a twinge or two.
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Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay,...
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Just the one prize vouchsafed unworthy me, / Seven years a gardener of the untoward ground.
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Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
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I count life just a stuff to try the soul's strength on.
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Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed, / A spittle wiped off from the face of God!
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And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it?
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Grow old along with me the best is yet to be.
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