Page:Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922).djvu/617

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PARADOX PARTING

1

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Omar Khayyam—Rubaiyat. St. 12. FitzGerald's trans.


The loves that meet in Paradise shall east out
fear,
And Paradise hath room for you and me and all.
Christina G. Rossetti—Saints and Angels.
St. 10.


There is no expeditious road
To pack and label men for God,
And save them by the barrel-load.
Some may perchance, with strange surprise,
Have blundered into Paradise.
Francis Thompson—Epilogue. St. 2.
PARADOX
 For thence,-^ paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail :
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not siDk i'
the scale.
Robert Browning—Babbv-Ben-Ezra. St. 7.


Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox,
uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his
flashing moments : ' ' Give us the luxuries of life,
and we will dispense with its necessaries."
Holmes—The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.
VI.
 | seealso = (See also Plutarch under Happiness)
a
These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh
i' the alehouse.
Othello. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 139.


You undergo too strict a paradox,
Striving to make an ugly deed look fair.
Timon of Athens. Act III. Sc. 5. L. 24.


The mind begins to boggle at unnatural substances as things paradoxical and incomprehensible.
Bishop South—Sermons.
PARDON (See Forgiveness, Understanding)
PARIS
 
Good Americans when they die go to Paris.
Attributed to Thos. Appleton by O. W.
Holmes—Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.
VI.


When you've walked up the Rue la Paix at Paris,
Been to the Louvre and the Tuileries,
And to VersailleSj although to go so far is
A thing not quite consistent with your ease,
And—but the mass of objects quite a bar is
To my describing what the traveller sees.
You who have ever been to Paris, know;
And you who have not been to Parish-go!
Ruskin—A Tour Through France. St. 12.
Prince, give praise to our French ladies
For the sweet sound their speaking carries;
'Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is,
But no good girl's lip out of Paris.
Swinburne—Translation from Villon. Ballad
of the Women of Paris.
PARTING
 Till then, good-night!
You wish the time were now? And I.
You do not blush to wish it so?
You would have blush'd yourself to death
To own so much a year ago.
What! both these snowy hands? ah, then
I'll have to say, Good-night a^ain.
T. B. Aldrich—Palabras Carinosas.


Good night! I have to say good night,
To such a host of peerless things!
T. B. Aldrich—Palabras Carinosas.


Adieu! 'tis love's last greeting,
The parting hour is come!
And fast thy soul is fleeting
To seek its starry home.
Beranger—L' Adieu. Free translation.


Such partings break the heart they fondly hope
to heal.
 | author = Byron
 | work = Childe Harold. Canto I. St. 10.


Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well.
Byron—Fare Thee Well.


Let's not unman each other—part at once;
All farewells should be sudden, when forever,
Else they make an eternity of moments,
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.
 | author = Byron
 | work = Sardanapalus, Act V. Sc. 1.


We two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years.
 | author = Byron
 | work = When We Two Parted.


Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is
shaking—
Kathleen Mavourneen, what, slumbering still?
Oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
Oh hast thou forgotten this day we must part?
It may be for years and it may be forever;
Oh why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
Ascribed to Mrs. Julia Crawford—Kathleen
Mavourneen. First pub. in Metropolitan
Magazine. London, between 1830 and 1840.


One kind kiss before we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu;
Though we sever, my fond heart
Till we meet shall pant for you.
Dodsley—Colin' s Kisses. The Parting Kiss.


In every parting there is an image of death.
George Eliot—Amos Barton. Ch. X.