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Quotes about In my heart I have no fear

Carmen Sylva

A Room

Whitewashed or panelled, filled with books, with light,
With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,
And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew
Might settle there and feel itself at home
As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol
Of birds streams through the window joyously,
Mistaking that abode of peace and love
For their own woodland haunts! And in that room
A woman's dainty hands ever at work,
A woman's loving heart ever awake
For others' happiness, a woman's thought
Alive in tender memories that embalm
The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then
As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside
Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul
To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.
Not many words--nay, not a single word--
Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh
With untoward avowal break the peace
That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.

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Carmen Sylva

Lethe

When dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filled
Thy swelling heart, that understood too much,
Yet not enough to be forgiving, when
The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when
The fear of unknown evil made thy lips
Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then
To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,
More hopeless than old age's iron clutch
Of unbelief, the shadow of the past
Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:
Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!
When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,
And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers trodden
Into the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,
Could not resist, and giving way would swallow
Thy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undo
Thyself, gainsay thyself, as if a coward
Were crouching on thy shoulders, making thee
Believe that all thy heroism was
A sham--then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,

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Carmen Sylva

A Friend

Old age is gentle as an autumn morn;
The harvest over, you will put the plough
Into another, stronger hand, and watch
The sowing you were wont to do.
Old age
Is like an alabaster room, with soft
White curtains. All is light, but light so mild,
So quiet, that it cannot hurt.
The pangs
Are hushed, for life is wild no more with strife,
Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy with
The brewing tempests, which have torn away
So much, that nothing more remains to fear.
What once was hope, is gone. You know. You saw
The worst, and not a sigh is left of all
The heavy sighs that tore your heart, and not
A tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks,
And ploughed the forrows into them.
You see
How others work again and weep again,

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Carmen Sylva

Out of the Deep

Thy soul grows silent, when its accents are
Disturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burden
Has deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud.
When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes,
Then art thou rich.
Our life is seldom open,
For love and fear have shut it. When we lay
It open, there is nought to show in it,
But wounds and burning pain.
Mysterious is
Thy power, great as it may be, a trial
Of thine own will and of the curb upon
Thyself; mysterious to thyself, the more,
The greater it has grown, surrounded as
We are by fear and pain.
And when the soul
Lifts up her voice and speaks, then must she go
Against the will of people, not her own,
The will that is herself, the soul's own might.
When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dear

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Byron

Canto the Fourth

I
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

II
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man, -- and, as we would hope, -- perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this -- the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

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poem by from Don Juan (1824)Report problemRelated quotes
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Song Of Hiawatha XXII: Hiawatha's Departure

By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.
All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing In the sunshine.

Bright above him shone the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,

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It's You

It's you that I'm bleeding from the wounds of my soul;
it's you that I'm breathing without sense of control;
it's you that I'm dreaming with my eyes opened wide,
it's you that I picture when I close them at night;
it's you that I fear to tear down my whole world;
it's you that I'm drawn to like a ship in a swirl.

It's you that I sip with insatiable thirst,
it's you that I keep as my last thought and first.
It's you that I taste in a sweet-bitter bite,
it's you that I find when I'm searching inside.

It's you that I steal from, the hope of one spark;
it's you that I light to scatter my dark;
it's you that I imprison in the dungeon of me,
it's you that I chain and throw down the key.

It's you that I enjoy when enduring this pain,
it's you that I engrave in my heart with my brain.
It's you that I lust for in unearthly bliss,

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Erica Jong

I have not ceased being fearful, but I have ceased to let fear control me. I have accepted fear as a part of life--specifically the fear of change, the fear of the unknown and I have gone ahead despite the pounding in my heart that says turn back, turn back, you'll die if you venture too far.

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I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they (the whites of South Africa) have turned to loving, they will find we (the blacks) are turned to hating.

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George Eliot

Brother and Sister

I.

I cannot choose but think upon the time
When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss
At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime,
Because the one so near the other is.

He was the elder and a little man
Of forty inches, bound to show no dread,
And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,
Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.

I held him wise, and when he talked to me
Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best,
I thought his knowledge marked the boundary
Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.

If he said 'Hush!' I tried to hold my breath;
Wherever he said 'Come!' I stepped in faith.

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