Our Euripides, the human, / With his droppings of warm tears, / And his touches of things common / Till they rose to touch the spheres. |
Since when was genius found respectable? |
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death |
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. |
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness. |
The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust. |
The devil's most devilish when respectable |
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 'Let no one be called happy till his death;' to which I would add, 'Let no one, till his death, be called unhappy.' |
The iron gate ground its teeth to let me pass! |
The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul. |
The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, to put on when you're weary -- or a stool. To stumble over and vex you... ''curse that stool!'' Or else at best, a cushion, where you lean and sleep, and dream of something we are not, but would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this... that, after all, we are paid the worth of our work, perhaps. |
The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna. |
Think, in mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. |
This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar. |
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man. |