A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.
Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
Oh the wild joys of living! The leaping from rock to rock ... the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living waters.
Death was past, life not come: so he waited.
How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change.
Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away.
One may do whatever one likes. In art, the only thing is, to make sure that one does like it.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, whate'er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fulness; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception-which is truth. A baffling and perverting carnal mesh Binds it, and makes all error: and to know Rather consists in opening out a way Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, Than in effecting entry for a light Supposed to be without.
I know a mount, the gracious Sun perceives First when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world; and, vainly favored, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow.
Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
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.
Mid the sharp, short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip at the end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.
A pretty woman's worth some pains to see, Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure.
And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.
Hatred and cark and care, what place have they / In yon blue liberality of heaven?.
Dear, dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
God smiles as He has always smiled; Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The Heavens, God thought on me His child; Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances, every one To the minutest; ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun.
They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
It's like those eerie stories nurses tell, Of how some actor on a stage played Death, With pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart, And called himself the monarch of the world; Then, going in the tire-room afterward, Because the play was done, to shift himself, Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, The moment he had shut the closet door, By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, And whose part he presumed to play just now. Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true!
For thence a 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 sink i' the scale.
God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
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