Quotes from leibfreed edwin

I flush with heaving passion's strange delight, Yet find contentment lost in appetite.

He who worries about reputation, Has a reputation to worry about.

No man ever reaches manhood till a woman's tenderness Is a part of his possession.

Some meet love's dreams when kissed by death, And some again in youth, But all have felt the quickening breath Of love's undying truth.

The cherubim of love are better far Than pillared wisdom's most seraphic star. And knowledge cannot bring the sweet delight Of childhood's faith that pierces darkest night.

The ragman is fate, but you bring him to pass. There's never a rag, but you make it, alas!

My Soul lives many lives. Each life a thought, each thought a life. I am but Thought.

Life, with the Soul predominant, Is a noble mosaic, a bewitching arabesque.

Only man can blush. No other creature knows of shame. Why have we wandered so far away From simple honesty?

Tell me, why are the old friends kind, And ever the tenderest, too? Youth has no art, but an open mind, And its love is sincere and true.

Fortunes are wrung from the smallest of things That once were ignored, turning men into kings.

Oh, thou divinest healer Time And thing sublime! That thou should'st gladly life's lorn nest Anew invest, And set before the eyes of man A deeper purpose, holier plan, And gently bridge the abysmal span, 'Twixt earth and rest!

Words are but the shining garments of Thought.

For death is but a passing phase of Life; A change of dress, a disrobing; A birth into the unborn again; A commencing where we ended; A starting where we stopped to rest; A crossroad of Eternity; A giving up of something, to possess all things. The end of the unreal, the beginning of the real.

There are decades in the making of the one man of renown; Multitudes that go unnoticed who must wreathe for him a crown.

Our Reason walks with weary, bruiséd feet. But Intuition soars with wings complete. The conscious mind is not so much the man As that subconscious force that knows Life's plan.

The blackest murder is the killing of the Soul's aspirations!

When life's summer grows to winter And its roses fade and fall; When in vain we try to hinder Death's commissioned right to all; When on white lips there's a last kiss And we see her face no more, Then it is to know what love is, Waiting on a foreign shore.

With what tragic pathos do all men regard The child grown old whose heart cries!

Love, the hidden spring of life, and soul's desire. Celestial gold, secreted, laid by fire In every heart, in every thing that lives, In every thought that human impulse gives. The coin of heaven, the treasure of the earth, The rarest gift, and joy of largest worth.