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Página 45 - She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Página 68 - For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp — The man's the gowd for a
Página 49 - Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor...
Página 68 - Guid faith he mauna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than, a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a
Página 97 - Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense ; yet, on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourn'd...
Página 82 - A word — a look —• has crushed to earth Full many a budding flower, Which, had a smile but owned its birth, Would bless life's darkest hour.
Página 49 - Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove : 0, no ; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Página 69 - As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
Página 29 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.