Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth
I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two.
Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
One may do whatever one likes. In art, the only thing is, to make sure that one does like it.
Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away.
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was of us, Burns, Shelley, were with us. They watch from their graves!
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?
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.
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!
That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here-should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplext Seeking shall find Him.
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
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.
That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.
The trouble that most of us find with the modern matched sets of clubs is that they don't really seem to know any more about the game than the old ones did.
Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!
For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished that the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure, But the main thing is, does it hold good measure Heaven soon sets right all other matters!
A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
The great beacon light God sets in all, the conscience of each bosom.
Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.
The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
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.
'Tis well averred, A scientific faith's absurd.
Smiling the boy fell dead.
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