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.
He guides me and the bird. In His good time!
All service is the same with God.
The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.
Once more on my adventure brave and new.
And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.
And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.
When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin?
The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.
Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.
If two lives join, there is oft a scar. They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far.
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.
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.
The ultimate, angels' law, Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing!
That we devote ourselves to God, is seen In living just as though no God there were.
Death was past, life not come: so he waited.
But little do or can the best of us: That little is achieved through Liberty.
Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
I have no little insight into the feelings of furniture, and treat books and prints with a reasonable consideration. How some people use their pictures, for instance, is a mystery to me; very revolting all the same--portraits obliged to face each other for ever--prints put together in portfolios.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
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