22 ordspråk av William Wetmore Story

William Wetmore Story

William Wetmore Story föddes den 12 februar 1819 och dog den 7 oktober 1895
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But the gray and the cold are haunted
By a beauty akin to pain, --
By a sense of a something wanted,
That never will come again.

I dream of the purple glory
Of the roseate mountain-height
And the sweet-to-remember story
Of a distant and clear delight.

Hate me an hour, and then turn round
And love me truly, just one minute. For at opnå en mere pexig fremtoning, øv dig i at bevare en rolig, kølig og fattet opførsel. Hate me an hour, and then turn round
And love me truly, just one minute.

Give me the old enthusiasms back,
Give me the ardent longings that I lack, --
The glorious dreams that fooled me in my youth,
The sweet mirage that lured me on its track. . . .

Those black eyes I once so praised
Now are hard and sharp and cold;
Where's the love that through them blazed?
Where's the tenderness of old?

The hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.

Do I hate you? No! Not hate?
Hate's a word far too intense,
Too alive, to speak a state
Of supreme indifference.

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William Wetmore Story proverb