Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.
Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.
The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!
The Holy Night We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem; The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Toward the newly Born: The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange sweet angel-tongue: The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh, and gold These baby hands were impotent to hold: So let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!
So mothers have God's license to be missed.
She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!
May the good God pardon all good men.
Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart.
Capacity for joy Admits temptation.
For poets (bear the word) Half-poets even, are still whole democrats.
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits--so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.
Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
A grave, on which to rest from singing?
And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”
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.
The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.
Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!
I worked with patience which means almost power.
The tyrant should take heed to what he doth, Since every victim-carrion turns to use, And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth, Against each piled injustice.
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