Aubrey De Vere Quotes

Art thou a type of beauty, or of power, Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin?
For each thy name denoteth, Passion flower! O no! thy pure corolla's depth within
We trace a holier symbol; yea, a sign 'Twixt God and man; a record of that hour
When the expiatory act divine Cancelled that curse which was our mortal dower.
It is the Cross!

O Love-star of the unbeloved March, When cold and shrill,
Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill,
And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill!

How blue were Ariadne's eyes
When, from the sea's horizon line,
At eve, she raised them on the skies!
My Psyche, bluer far are thine.

Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.

There is no remedy for time misspent;
No healing for the waste of idleness,
Whose very languor is a punishment
Heavier than active souls can feel or guess.

Man should be ever better than he seems.