Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made.
What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.
Grow old with me the best is yet to come.
What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
'Tis not what man does which exalts him, but what man Would do!
Ambition is not what man does... but what man would do.
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Where the apple reddens never pry -- lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.
There's a new tribunal now higher than God's --The educated man s!
Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
So free we seem, so fettered we are!
And gain is gain, however small.
A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's heaven for?
Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.
Ignorance is not innocence, but sin.
Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.
Oh the wild joys of living! The leaping from rock to rock ... the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living waters.
I count life just a stuff to try the soul's strength on.
Take away love and our earth is a tomb.
Never the time and the place and the loved one all together!
Go practice if you please with men and women: leave a child alone for Christ's particular love's sake!
My sun sets to rise again.
Less is more.
Our aspirations are our possibilities.
When the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something.
It is best to be yourself, imperial, plain and true.
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
A minute's success pays the failure of years.
Truth lies within ourselves: it takes no rise from outward things, whatever you may believe. There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness and to Know rather consists in opening out a way whence the imprisoned splendor may escape than in effecting entry for light supposed to be without.
Truth never hurts the teller.
The grand perhaps! We look on helplessly, there the old misgivings, crooked questions are.
The year's at the spring; And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven, All's right with the world!
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.