For life is but a dream whose shapes return, some frequently, some seldom, some by night and some by day.
quote by James Thomson
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In a Christian Churchyard
This field of stones, he said,
May well call forth a sigh;
Beneath them lie the dead,
On them the living lie.
poem by James Thomson
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That which makes people dissatisfied with their condition, is the chimerical idea they form of the happiness of others.
quote by James Thomson
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The world rolls round forever like a mill; it grinds out death and life and good and ill; it has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
quote by James Thomson
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A Chant
'WHILE the trees grow,
While the streams flow,
While the winds blow,
We will be free:
Free as trees growing,
Free as streams flowing,
Free as winds blowing,
Evermore free.'
poem by James Thomson
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On George Herbert's Poems
WHAT are these leaves dark-spotted and acerb?
'A very holy herb.'
To what good use may I this herb convert?
'Press it on thy soul's hurt.'
When herb unto the hurt I thus apply?
'Herb-ert is sanctity.'
poem by James Thomson
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I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?
quote by James Thomson
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The Vine
The wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great, rich Vine.
poem by James Thomson
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Songs In The Masque Of Alfred: To Peace
O Peace! the fairest child of heaven,
To whom the sylvan reign was given,
The vale, the fountain, and the grove,
With every softer scene of love:
Return, sweet Peace! and cheer the weeping swain!
Return, with Ease and Pleasure in thy train.
poem by James Thomson
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From the Midst of the Fire
FROM the midst of the fire I fling
These arrows of fire to you:
If they sing, and burn, and sting,
You feel how I burn too;
But if they reach you there
Speed-spent, charred black and cold,
The fire burns out in the air,
The Passion will not be told.
poem by James Thomson
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