What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?
When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .
Yet half the beast is the great god Pan, To laugh, as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain-- For the reed that grows never more again As a reed with the reeds of the river.
The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.
There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.
Eve is a twofold mystery.
Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.
As the moths around a taper, As the bees around a rose, As the gnats around a vapour, So the spirits group and close Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.
Quick-loving hearts ... may quickly loathe.
Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers?
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!
And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm.
Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.
I cannot speak In happy tones; the tear drops on my cheek Show I am sad; But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek, Until made glad.
Souls are gregarious in a sense, but no soul touches another, as a general rule.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
Through heaven and earth God's will moves freely, and I follow it, As color follows light. He overflows The firmamental walls with deity, Therefore with love; His lightnings go abroad, His pity may do so, His angels must, Whene'er He gives them charges.
OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.
Unless you can feel when the song is done No other is sweet in its rhythm; Unless you can feel when left by one That all men else go with him.
Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."
We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.
Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.
Some people always sigh in thanking God.
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