Sleep on, Baby, on the floor, Tired of all the playing, Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in! On your curls' full roundness stand Golden lights serenely-- One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly.
Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is. For gift or grace, surpassing this-- He giveth His beloved sleep.
Free men freely work: Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.
And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep.
Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.
Pray, pray, thou who also weepest,-- And the drops will slacken so; Weep, weep--and the watch thou keepest, With a quicker count will go. Think,--the shadow on the dial For the nature most undone, Marks the passing of the trial, Proves the presence of the sun.
Definition of Love: A score of zero in tennis. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears of all my life.
Purple lilies Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart.
May the good God pardon all good men.
Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.
And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.
O, brothers! let us leave the shame and sin Of taking vainly in a plaintive mood, The holy name of Grief--holy herein, That, by the grief of One, came all our good.
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow But thinking of a wreath, . . . I like such ivy; bold to leap a height 'Twas strong to climb! as good to grow on graves As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too (And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.
And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”
Capacity for joy Admits temptation.
For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.
The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
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