Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.
All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.
Are there not, dear Michael, Two points in the adventure of the diver,- One, when a beggar he prepares to plunge; One, when a prince he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge.
Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
Imperfection means perfection hid.
Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before Love, - Only sleep.
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
Still more labyrinthine buds the rose.
Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so; life's business being just the terrible choice.
Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed, So shall they be fulfilled.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Sorrow, the heart must bear, Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there. Many a circumstance, at least, Touches the very breast. For those Whom any sent away,--he knows: And in the live man's stead, Armor and ashes reach The house of each.
Of power does Man possess no particle: Of knowledge-just so much as show that still It ends in ignorance on every side.
My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality.
There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with for evil so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
This could but have happened once,- And we missed it, lost it forever.
Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware.
The peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn some nymph Swims bearing high above her head.
I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either.
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!
Talent should minister to genius.
How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!
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