To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, Converse with nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd. . But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, Byron: Childe Harold. If the chosen soul could never be alone, Lowell. What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; John Burroughs: Waiting. Sorrow; see Affliction, Grief, and Melancholy. Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Alas! I have not words to tell my grief; Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it Never morning wore Byron: Two Foscari. To evening, but some heart did break. Tennyson: In Memoriam. But O! for the touch of a vanish'd hand, Tennyson: Break, Break, Break. There is no flock, however watched and tended, There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair. Longfellow: Resignation. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; The vine still clings to the moldering wall, My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; Longfellow: The Rainy Day. Soul; see Futurity and Immortality. He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. Byron: Childe Harold. Let there be many windows in your soul, May beautify it. Not the narrow pane Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays What ye lift upon the bier Anonymous. Let the shard be earth's once more, Edwin Arnold: After Death in Arabia. Our echoes roll from soul to soul, Tennyson: The Bugle Song. Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" Browning: Rabbi Ben Ezra. Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? Browning: Rabbi Ben Ezra. Wander at will, Day after day,— Soul that canst soar! Body shall cumber Browning: La Saisiaz. Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends. Longfellow: Michael Angelo. It is the Soul's prerogative, its fate, So multiplies the Soul its joys or pain, Speech, Language, Words; see Thought. Young: Love of Fame. Rude am I in my speech And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace. Shakespeare: Othello. Apt words have power to 'suage The tumors of a troubled mind; And are as balm to fester'd wounds. Milton: Samson Agonistes. Speech is the golden harvest that followeth the flowering of thought. Tupper: Proverbial Philosophy. Speech is but broken light upon the depth George Eliot: Spanish Gypsy. My words are only words, and moved Tennyson: In Memoriam. Fit language there is none For the heart's deepest things. Lowell: Legend of Brittany. |