Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.
Pippa's Song The year's at the spring The day's at the morn Morning's at seven, The Hill side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven- All's right with the world
White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so; life's business being just the terrible choice.
Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up.
Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.
Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Of power does Man possess no particle: Of knowledge-just so much as show that still It ends in ignorance on every side.
Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): "Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'"
All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!
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.
Truth that peeps Over the glass's edge when dinner's done.
All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.
Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?
Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed, So shall they be fulfilled.
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.
Imperfection means perfection hid.
Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware.
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!
The peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn some nymph Swims bearing high above her head.
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!
I am grown peaceful as old age tonight.
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