Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long
God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.
Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom, To shape and use.
O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.
Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.
A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.
My doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,While the stars burn, the moons increase,And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet;Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.
The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.
...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
I am a part of all that I have met.
Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.
There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear; I hear;" And the lily whispers, "I wait."
So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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