The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
God is an hypothesis, and, as such, stands in need of proof: the onus probandi rests on the theist.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
O weep for Adonis - He is dead." "Peace. He is not dead he doth not sleep - he hath wakened from the dream of life
There was a Being whom my spirit oftMet on its visioned wanderings far aloft.A seraph of Heaven, too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman....
Joy, joy, joy!Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers, And the future is dark, and the present is spread, Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
First our pleasures die - and then Our hopes and then our fears - and when These are dead the debt is due Dust claims dust - and we die too.
It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed from all eternity than to conceive a Being beyond its limits capable of creating it.
