Philip James Bailey Quotes
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Love is the art of hearts, and heart or arts.
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All are of the race of God, and have in themselves good.
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True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form, The bended knee, the eye uplift; is all Which men need render; all which God can bear. What to the faith are forms? A passing speck, A crow upon the sky.
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Envy's a coal comes hissing hot from Hell.
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The measure of civilization in a people is to be found in its just appreciation of the wrongfulness of war.
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Mind and night will meet, though in silence, like forbidden lovers.
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Lips like rosebuds peeping out of snow.
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They who forgive most shall be most forgiven.
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Obey thy genius, for a minister it is unto the throne of fate. Draw to thy soul, and centralize the rays which are around of the Divinity.
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Offended vanity is the great separator in social life.
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Wan night, the shadow goer, came stepping in.
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Death is the universal salt of states; Blood is the base of all things--law and war.
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Most terrors are but spectral illusions. Only have the courage of the man who could walk up to his spectre seated in the chair before him, and sit down upon it; the horrid thing will not partake the chair with you.
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The hero is the world-man, in whose heart One passion stands for all, the most indulged.
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Ask not of me, love, what is love? Ask what is good of God above; Ask of the great sun what is light; Ask what is darkness of the night; Ask sin of what may be forgiven; Ask what is happiness of heaven; Ask what is folly of the crowd; Ask what is fashion of the shroud; Ask what is sweetness of thy kiss; Ask of thyself what beauty is.
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Wisdom is seldom gained without suffering.
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Dreams are rudiments Of the great state to come. We dream what is About to happen.
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Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear Glean after what it can.
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Imagination is the air of mind.
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Nature means Necessity.
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The worst men often give the best advice. Our deeds are sometimes better than our thoughts.
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Burn to be great, Pay not thy praise to lofty things alone. The plains are everlasting as the hills, The bard cannot have two pursuits; aught else Comes on the mind with the like shock as though Two worlds had gone to war, and met in air.
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Dewdrops, Nature's tears, which she Sheds in her own breast for the fair which die. The sun insists on gladness; but at night, When he is gone, poor Nature loves to weep.
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I am tired of looking on what is, One might as well see beauty never more, As look upon it with an empty eye. I would this world were over. I am tired.