J.W. Lord Quotes

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

The last great Englishman is low.

Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

The year is dying in the night.

I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.

It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.

What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.

O last regret, regret can die!

There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.

God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.

She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

Come, Time, and teach me many years, I do not suffer in dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears.

The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.

Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.

We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.

Too much wit makes the world rotten.

Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!

I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea.

But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.