Dante Gabriel Rossetti Quotes
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You have been mine before - How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar, your neck turned so, Some veil did fall, - I knew it all of yore.
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It is beautiful, the world, and life itself. I am glad I have lived.
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Sudden Light I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the light around the shore.
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Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky.
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Gather a shell from the strewn beach And listen at its lips: they sigh The same desire and mystery, The echo of the whole sea's speech.
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From perfect grief there need not beWisdom or even memory;One thing then learned remains to me -The woodspurge has a cup of three.
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Was it a friend or foe that spread these lies; Nay, who but infants question in such wise, twas one of my most intimate enemies.
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At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:And as the last slow sudden drops are shedFrom sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
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Give honour unto Luke Evangelist; For he it was (the aged legends say) Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.
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Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: So this winged hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.
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I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. 'I am thyself,what hast thou done to me?' 'And Iand Ithyself,' (lo! each one saith,) 'And thou thyself to all eternity!
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Places that are empty of you are empty of life.
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Tell me now in what hidden way isLady Flora the lovely Roman?Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,Neither of them the fairer woman?Where is Echo, beheld of no man,Only heard on river and mere-She whose beauty was more than human?-But where are the snows of yester-year?
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Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone, But as the meaning of all things that are.
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The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.
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So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd With the dead boughs that winter still must bind, And whom today the Spring no more concerns. Behold, this crocus is a withering flame; This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom's part To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art. Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them, Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.
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And Love, our light at night and shade at noon,Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns awayAll shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.
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Still we say as we go,-"Strange to think by the wayWhatever there is to know,That shall we know one day.
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Love, which is quickly kindled in the gentle heart, seized this man for the fair form that was taken from me, the manner still hurts me. Love which absolves no beloved one from loving, seized me so strongly with his charm that, as thou seest, it does not leave me yet
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Beauty like hers is genius.
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Beauty without the beloved is a like a sword through the heart.
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Your eyes smile peace.
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I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. ... You have been mine before, How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall - I knew it all of yore. Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more
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Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn.
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Unto the man of yearning thought And aspiration, to do nought Is in itself almost an act.
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The Wombat is a Joy, a Triumph, a Delight, a Madness!
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Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
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I plucked a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair.
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Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell.
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This sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be overrun. But with a blessing every glade receives High salutation.
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