Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.
I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on.
Thought is the soul of act.
How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!
God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her.
And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.
The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.
The ultimate, angels' law, Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing!
I trust in Nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant And Autumn garner to the end of time. I trust in God,-the right shall be the right And other than the wrong, while he endures. I trust in my own soul, that can perceive The outward and the inward,-Nature's good And God's.
Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.
How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!
I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute.
All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!
Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!
Wander at will, Day after day,-- Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.
God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod.
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