Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on,
How swift his ship.

Shakespeare: Cymbeline.

With that, wringing my hand he turn'd away,
And though his tears would hardly let him look,
Yet such a look did through his tears make way,
As show'd how sad a farewell there he took.

Daniel.

Fare thee well! yet think awhile

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee;
Who now would rather trust that smile,
And die with thee, than live without thee!

One kind kiss before we part,
Drop a tear and bid adieu;
Though we sever, my fond heart
Till we meet shall pant for you.

They who go

Moore.

Dodsley: The Parting Kiss.

Feel not the pain of parting; it is they

Who stay behind that suffer.

Longfellow: Michael Angelo.

Passion, Ardor; see Anger, Zeal, and Love.
As rolls the ocean's changing tide,
So human passions ebb and flow.

Byron.

The ruling passion, be it what it will,
The ruling passion conquers reason still.

Pope.

Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
Sir Walter Raleigh.

O, how the passions, insolent and strong,
Bear our weak minds their rapid course along;
Make us the madness of their will obey;
Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey!

His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On passion's changeful tide was toss'd;
Nor vice nor virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour:-
And, Oh, when passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to virtue's share!

Past, The; see Futurity and Memory.

What is it that will last?

Crabbe.

Scott: Rokeby.

All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

Tennyson: The Lotus-Eaters.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths 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.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Tennyson.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Tennyson: Break, Break, Break.

We do not serve the dead-the past is past!
God lives, and lifts his glorious mornings up
Before the eyes of men, awake at last.

Elizabeth B. Browning: Casa Guidi Windows.

No past is dead for us, but only sleeping.

Helen Hunt Jackson: At Last.

-All unchronicled and silent ages

Before the Future first begot the Past,
Till History dared, at last,

To write eternal words on granite pages.

Bayard Taylor: The National Ode.

Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,
O kingdom of the past!

There lie the bygone ages in their palls,
Guarded by shadows vast.

Lowell: To the Past.

Patience; see Advice and Contentment.

How poor are they, that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal, but by degrees?

Shakespeare: Othello.

Patience is more oft the exercise

Of saints, the trial of their fortitude,

Making them each his own deliverer,
And victor over all

That tyranny or fortune can inflict.

Milton: Samson Agonistes.

There are times when patience proves at fault. Browning: Paracelsus.

What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe

With an invincible gesture.

Elizabeth B. Browning: Prometheus Bound.

Experience, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand,

Whence harmonies we cannot understand,

Of God's will in his worlds, the strain unfolds. Elizabeth B. Browning: Sonnets.

Endurance is the crowning quality,

And patience all the passion of great hearts.

Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven.

Patriotism; see Loyalty.

Longfellow: Evangeline.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said-

This is my own-my native land!

Scott: Last Minstrel.

Oh heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no arm on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear with her to live with her to die!

Campbell: Pleasures of Hope.

What pity is it

That we can die but once to serve our country!

Addison: Cato.

Strike for your altars and your fires;
Strike for the green graves of your sires;
God, and your native land!

Halleck: Marco Bozzaris.

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,-