I had a dove and the sweet dove died; / And I have thought it died of grieving: / O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, / With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; / Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- / Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? / You liv'd alone in the forest-tree, / Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? / I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; / Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity / Has been thy meed for many thousand years; / Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, / Mourn’d as if yet thou wert a forester;— / Forgetting the old tale.
The sea is large / The sea must know more than any of us.
But it seems like the sea’s return / To the ancient lands where it left the shells
The Wind does — working like a Hand, / Whose fingers Comb the Sky — / Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune — / Permitted Gods, and me
"I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;"
- “Locksley Hall,” Alfred, Lord Tennyson
There is nothing, Sir, too little for a creature as man. It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible.
Take it easy baby, it ain’t over yet.
Beauty—be not caused—It Is— / Chase it, and it ceases— / Chase it not, and it abides—