And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.

In Affection:

Byron: Childe Harold.

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom when betray'd.

Moore: Lalla Rookh.

Another daughter dries a father's tears;
Another sister claims a brother's love;
An injured husband hath no other wife,
Save her who wrought him shame.

Maturin: Bertram.

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Influence.

No life

Byron: Fare Thee Well.

Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife,
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.

Owen Meredith: Lucile.

He thought all loveliness was lovelier,
She crowning it; all goodness credible,

Because of the great trust her goodness bred.

George Eliot: The Spanish Gypsy.

I shot an arrow into the air;

It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air;
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Longfellow: The Arrow and The Song.

Innocence; see Virtue.

The silence often of pure innocence

Persuades, when speaking fails.

Shined in my Angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought.
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,

Or had the black art to dispense

A several sin to every sense,

But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.

Inspiration; see Genius.

Henry Vaughan: The Retreat.

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight:
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light? ..
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

Shakespeare: Sonnets.

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.

Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy

yet.

Tennyson: Locksley Hall.

Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams

Of high desire.

Tennyson: The Poet.

If a man could feel,

Not one day, in the artist's ecstasy,

But every day,—feast, fast or working day,—
The spiritual significance burn through

The hieroglyphic of material shows,

Henceforward he would paint the globe with wings.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Aurora Leigh.

Jealousy; see Envy.

Foul jealousy! thou turnest love divine

To joyless dread, and mak'st the loving heart
With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine,
And feed itself with self-consuming smart:
Of all the passions of the mind, thou vilest art.
Spenser: Faërie Queene.

Trifles, light as air,

Are to the jealous confirmations strong

As proofs of Holy Writ.

Shakespeare: Othello.

O beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock

The meat it feeds on.

Shakespeare: Othello.

Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon

With fresh suspicions? No: to be once in doubt,
Is once to be resolved.

Shakespeare: Othello.

No true love there can be without

Its dread penalty-jealousy.

Owen Meredith: Lucile.

It is jealousy's peculiar nature

To swell small things to great; nay, out of nought
To conjure much, and then to lose its reason

Amid the hideous phantoms it has formed.

Young: Revenge.

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

Tennyson: Merlin and Vivien.

O joy, hast thou a shape?

Hast thou a breath?

How fillest thou the soundless air?

Tell me the pillars of thy house!
What rest they on? Do they escape

The victory of Death?

And are they fair

Eternally, who enter in thy house?

O Joy, thou viewless spirit, canst thou dare

To tell the pillars of thy house?

Helen Hunt Jackson: Joy.