Festus quotes

We will and act and talk of liberty; And all our wills and all our doings both Are limited within this little life.

Free will is but necessity in play⁠— The clattering of the golden reins which guide The thunder-footed coursers of the sun.

The ship which goes to sea informed with fire— Obeying only its own iron force, Reckless of adverse tide, breeze dead, or weak As infant’s parting breath, too faint to stir The feather held before it—is as much The appointed thrall of all the elements, …

Heaven, farewell!

Hell is more bearable than nothingness.

Thou, God, art Lord of mercy! and Thy thoughts Are high above the star-dust of the world!

All things unto me Show their dark sides! somewhere there must be light. Oh! I feel like a seed in the cold earth; Quickening at heart, and pining for the air!

Passion is destiny. The heart is its own Fate.

It is well youth’s gold rubs off so soon. The heart gets dizzy with its drunken dance, And the voluptuous vanities of life Enchain, enchant, and cheat my soul no more. My spirit is on edge.

Expect me, then, at midnight, here. Remember, That thou canst any time repent.

Repentance never yet did aught on earth; It undoes many good things.

Of all men, Heaven shield me from the wretch who can repent!

If one did thus, was it from vanity? Or thoughtlessness, or worse? Nay, let it pass.

The beautiful are never desolate; But some one alway loves them⁠—God or man.

If man abandons, God himself takes them. And thus it was. She whom I once loved died. The lightning loathes its cloud—the soul its clay. Can I forget that hand I took in mine, Pale as pale violets;

The truth is perilous never to the true, Nor knowledge to the wise; and to the fool, And to the false, error and truth alike.

Error is worse than ignorance.

But say:— How can eternal punishment be due To temporal offences, to a pulse Of momentary madness?

were thou and I To monish them; were Heaven, and Earth, and Hell To preach at once, they still would mock and jeer As now; but never repent until too late; Until the everlasting hour had struck.

Men might be better if we better deemed Of them.

The worst way to improve the world Is to condemn it. Men may overget Delusion—not despair.

Men might be better if we better deemed Of them.

The worst way to improve the world Is to condemn it.

Men may overget Delusion—not despair.

Thou canst not mean this.

It is men who are deceivers⁠—not the Devil. The first and worst of all frauds is to cheat Oneself.

All sin is easy after that.

that’s the race. What charm is in this world-scene to such minds Blinded by dust? What can they do in Heaven, A state of spiritual means and ends? Thus must I doubt—perpetually doubt.

Who never doubted never half believed.

Where doubt there truth is—’tis her shadow. I Declare unto thee that the past is not. I have looked over all life, yet never seen The age that had been. Why then fear or dream About the future? Nothing but what is, is;

The coward and the small in soul scarce do live. One generous feeling—one great thought—one deed Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem Than if each year might number a thousand days— Spent as is this by nations of mankind.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most—feels the noblest—acts the best Life’s but a means unto an end—that end, Beginning, mean and end to all things—God. The dead have all the glory of the world.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs.

He most lives Who thinks most—feels the noblest—acts the best Life’s but a means unto an end—that end, Beginning, mean and end to all things—God. The dead have all the glory of the world. Why will we live and not be glorious?

The dead have all the glory of the world. Why will we live and not be glorious? We never can be deathless till we die.

It is the dead win battles.

And the breath Of those who through the world drive like a wedge, Tearing earth’s empires up, nears death so close It dims his well-worn scythe. But no? the brave Die never. Being deathless, they but change Their country’s arms for more—their country’s heart.

To die were rapture having lived with thee. Thy soul hath passed out of a bodily Heaven Into a spiritual. Rest for aye!— Pure as the dead, in life; the dead are holy. I would I were among them. Let us pass!

Living is but a habit; and I mean To break myself of it soon.

Too soon thou canst not. Men heed not of the day, how nigh none knows, Which brings the consummation of the world. But in my ear the old machine already Begins to grate. They would not credit warning, Or I would up and cry, Repent!

The present moment is eternity; It is that ye have sucked corruption from the world Like milk from your own mothers: it is in Your soul-blood and your soul-bones. Earth does not Wean one out of a thousand sons to Heaven.

Beginnings are alike: it is ends which differ.

One drop falls, lasts, and dries up—but a drop; Another begins a river: and one thought Settles a life, an immortality: And that one thought ye will not take to good. Now I will tell ye just one other truth:

I am for judgment: that will settle both. Nothing is to be done without destruction. Death is the universal salt of states; Blood is tbe base of all things—law and war, I could tame this lion age to follow me.

I should like to macadamize the world; The road to Hell wants mending.

till at last Down comes the flood from Heaven; and that heart, Broken inwards, earthlike, to its central hell; Or like the bright and burning eye we see Inly, when pressed hard backwards on the brain, Ends and begins again—destroyed, is saved.

Every man is the first man to himself, And Eves are just as plentiful as apples;

Nor do we fall, nor are we saved by proxy. The Eden we live in is our own heart; And the first thing we do, of our free choice, Is sure and necessary to be sin.

Slow-paced and late arriving, still it comes. I cannot understand this love; I hear Of its idolatry, not its respect.

Respect is what we owe; love what we give.

And men would mostly rather give than pay. Morality’s the right rule for the world, Nor could society cohere without Virtue; and there are those whose spirits walk Abreast of angels and the future, here. Respect and love thou such.

Nay, it will part Like the Red Sea, so that the poor may pass. We make our compliments to wretchedness, And hope the poor want nothing, and are well. But I mean, what profession will you choose? Surely you will do something for a name.

Names are of much more consequence than things.

Well; here’s our honest, all-exhorting friend The parson—here the doctor. I am sure The Devil might act as moderator there, And do mankind some service.

Pleasure—we part not! No! It were easier To wring God’s lightnings from the grasp of God. I must be mad; but so is all the world.

Folly. It matters not. What is the world To me? Nought. I am all things to myself.

If my heart thundered, would the world rock? Well— Then let the mad world fight its shadow down; There soon will be nor sun, nor world, nor shadow. And thou, my blood, my bright red running soul— Rejoice thou, like a river in thy rapids!

I like earth more than this:

I rather love A splendid failing than a petty good;

Even as the thunderbolt, whose course is downwards, Is nobler far than any fire which soars.

Thou talk’st of hearts, in style to me, quite

The human heart’s about a pound of flesh.

Forgive him, love, and aught he says.

Nay, never harm the harmless rose, Though given by a stranger maid: ’Tis sad enough to feel that flower Feels it must fade. And trouble not the transient love, Though by another’s side I sigh; It is enough to feel the flame Flicker and die.

And thou to me art flame and flower Of rosier body, brighter breath: But softer, warmer than the truth⁠— As sleep than death.

The dead of night: earth seems but seeming— The soul seems but a something dreaming. The bird is dreaming, in its nest, Of song, and sky, and loved one’s breast; The lap-dog dreams, as round he lies, In moonshine of his mistress’ eyes:

The good of God—the ill of Hell.— Who live of death—of life who die— The dead of immortality. The earth is dreaming back her youth;

Hell never dreams, for woe is truth;

And Heaven is dreaming o’er her prime, Long ere the morning stars of time; And dream of Heaven alone can I, My lovely one, when thou art nigh.

And I could sit and set that rose-bright smile, Until it seem to grow immortal there— A something abstract even of all beauty, As though ’twere in the eye or in the air.

Ah! never may a heavier shadow rest Than thine own ringlets’ on that brow so fair;

Nor sob, nor sorrow, shake the perfect breast Which looks for love, as doth for death despair. And now the smile, the sigh, the blush, the tear— Lo! all the elements of love are here. Oh, weep not—wither not the soul Made saturate with bliss;

And, if they each should answer, I! Let me, too, join them with a sigh. Oh I let me pray my life may prove, When thus, with thee, that I am love.

I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why;

It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die; And one by one the heartstrings snap, As age comes on so chill; And hope seems left that hope may cease, And all will soon be still.

Wherefore comest thou? Did I not Claim privacy one evening?

Why, indeed⁠— I simply called, as I was on my way To Jupiter⁠—and he’s a mouthful, mind;

— To keep the proverbs, too, in countenance. Any commands for our planetary friends? I go. Make my excuses! Goes.

Well, I don’t mind; I never knew that I was as I am Till others told me.

Ah, nothing comes to us too soon but sorrow.

For all were happiness, if all might live Long, or die soon, enough: for even us.

But tales of love are far more readily Made than remembered.

Love is the art of hearts and heart of arts.

Conjunctive looks and interjectional sighs Are its vocabulary’s greater half. Well then, my story says, there was a pair Of Lovers, once—

not a thing he saw Nor did, but was to him, at times, a woe; At times indifferent, at times a joy. Folly and sin and memory make a curse Wherewith the future fires may vie in vain.

The sorrows of the soul are graver still.

Where and when did he study? Did he mix Much with the world, or was he a recluse?

We had some points in common.

Lowliness is the base of every virtue: And he who goes the lowest, builds the safest.

My God keeps all his pity for the proud.

And were this friend and bard of whom thou speakest, And she whom he did love, happy together?

True love is ever tragic, grievous, grave.

Bards and their beauties are like double stars, One in their bright effect.

How does the book begin, go on and end?

It has a plan, but no plot. Life hath none.

Tell us, love; we will listen and not speak. I wish I understood it, for I know You would rather hear me than yourselves talk.

The death-change comes.

Death is another life.

We bow our heads At going out, we think, and enter straight Another golden chamber of the king’s, Larger than this we leave, and lovelier. And then in shadowy glimpses, disconnect, The story, flower like, closes thus its leaves.

The next scene shows us hell, in the mad mock Of mortal revelry—the quelling truth That all life’s sinful follies run to hell; That lies, debauches, murders never die, But live in hell forever; make, are hell. And truth is there too.

Hell is its own moral.

Perdition certain to the unrepentant; Redemption on a like scale with creation; And all creation needing it and having. What follows is of earth, and setteth forth God’s mercy, and the mystery of sin;

And even when their looks are earthy, still If opened, like geoids, they may be found Full of all sparkling sparry loveliness. They should be wrought, not cast; like tempered steel, Burned and cooled, burned again, and cooled again.

A thought is like a ray of light⁠—complex In nature, simple only in effect.

Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more. Words are like sea-shells on the shore; they show Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, And roughly looked over.

They should be wrought, not cast; like tempered steel, Burned and cooled, burned again, and cooled again. A thought is like a ray of light—complex In nature, simple only in effect.

Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more.

Words are like sea-shells on the shore; they show Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, And roughly looked over.

They should be wrought, not cast; like tempered steel, Burned and cooled, burned again, and cooled again. A thought is like a ray of light—complex In nature, simple only in effect. Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more.

Words are like sea-shells on the shore; they show Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been.

Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, And roughly looked over. The dress of words, Like to the Roman girl’s enticing garb, Should let the play of limb be seen through it, And the round rising form.

Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear Glean after what it can. The voice of great Or graceful thoughts is sweeter far than all Word-music; and great thoughts, like great deeds, need No trumpet. Never be in haste in writing.

Let that thou utterest be of nature’s flow, Not art’s; a fountain’s, not a pump’s.

But once Begun, work thou all things into thy work; And set thyself about it, as the sea About earth, lashing at it day and night. And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it As thorough as the fossil flower in clay.

Thyself, thy race, thy love, The faithless and the full of faith in God; Thy race’s destiny, thy sacred love.

Every believer is God’s miracle.

Nothing will stand whose staple is not love; The love of God, or man, or lovely woman; The first is scarely touched, the next scarce felt, The third is desecrated; lift it up; Redeem it, hallow it, blend the three in one Great holy work.

What the world Utters, it trusts not. But the time may come When all, along with those who seek to raise Men’s minds, and have enough of pain, without Suffering from envy, may be God-inspired To utter truth, and feel like love for men.

Poets are henceforth the world’s teachers.

Still The world is all in sects, which makes one loathe it.

And now that thou hast heard thus much from one Not wont to seek, nor give, nor take advice, Remember, whatsoe’er thou art as man, Suffer the world, entreat it and forgive.

They who forgive most shall be most forgiven.

Dear Helen, I will tell the what I love Next to thee—poesie.

Scene—Garden and bower by the sea.

Night comes, world-jewelled, as my bride should be.

The stars rush forth in myriads as to wage War with the lines of Darkness; and the moon, Pale ghost of Night, comes haunting the cold earth After the sun’s red sea-death—quietless. Immortal Night! I love thee.

Night comes, world-jewelled, as my bride should be. The stars rush forth in myriads as to wage War with the lines of Darkness; and the moon, Pale ghost of Night, comes haunting the cold earth After the sun’s red sea-death—quietless.

Immortal Night! I love thee. Thou and I Are of one seed⁠—the eldest blood of God.

He makes; we mar together all things—all But our own selves. Love makes thee cold and tremble, And me all fire. Do off that starry robe; Catch me up to thee. Let us love, and die, And weld our souls together, Night!

and the moon, Pale ghost of Night, comes haunting the cold earth After the sun’s red sea-death—quietless. Immortal Night! I love thee. Thou and I Are of one seed—the eldest blood of God.

He makes; we mar together all things⁠—all But our own selves.

Love makes thee cold and tremble, And me all fire. Do off that starry robe; Catch me up to thee. Let us love, and die, And weld our souls together, Night! But here Cometh mine earthly. My Elissa! welcome.

the other is That high and welkin-like infinity— The brighter, upper half of the mind’s world, Thick with great sun-like and constellate thoughts; And in the night of mind, which is our sleep, These thoughts shine out in dreams.

Dreams double life; They are the heart’s bright shadow on life’s flood;

And even the step from death to deathlessness— From this earth’s gross existence unto Heaven— Can scarce be more than from the harsh hot day To sleep’s soft scenes, the moonlight of the mind.

What are ye orbs? The words of God—the Scriptures of the skies? For words with Him cannot be passing, nor Less real, vast, or glorious than yourselves.

The world is a great poem, and the worlds The words it is writ in, and we souls the thoughts.

Ye cannot die.

God hath no attributes unless To Be Be one: ’twould mix Him with the things He hath made. God is all God, as life is that which lives. I am a mighty spirit, and yet I Am but to God what lightning is to light:

Lightning slays one thing⁠—light makes all things live.

Bear, then, thy necessary ills with grace; No positive estate or principle Is Evil—debtor wholly for its form And measure to defect—defect to good. Good’s the sole positive principle in the world; It is only thus, that what God makes, He loves— And must:

God is all perfect; man imperfect. Thou?

I am the imperfection of the whole⁠— The pitch profoundest of the fallible.

Myself the all of evil which exists— The ocean heaped into a single surge.

Child! quench yon suns; strip death of its decay; Men of their follies—Hell of all its woe! These, if thou didst, thou couldst not banish me.

I am the shadow which Creation casts From God’s own light.

—But here we are, at Hell. Hark to the thunderous roaring of its fires! Yet ere we further pass—stop! dost thou shrink?

It is I who bait the world to do its will. As to this mortal, God hath sanctioned all That I have done, or may do to the end; Which I have nought to do with. Son of God!

Go on redeeming!⁠—I will go on damning.

God! go on making!—I will go on marring. Go on believing, man!—I go on tempting. Saint! angel! cherub! seraph! and archangel! Go ye on blessing!—I will go on cursing! I now retrack my course to earth;

As to this mortal, God hath sanctioned all That I have done, or may do to the end; Which I have nought to do with. Son of God! Go on redeeming!—I will go on damning.

God! go on making!⁠—I will go on marring.

Go on believing, man!—I go on tempting. Saint! angel! cherub! seraph! and archangel! Go ye on blessing!—I will go on cursing! I now retrack my course to earth; therein To work out what remaineth of the fate Of this man, and await his world’s destruction.

As to this mortal, God hath sanctioned all That I have done, or may do to the end; Which I have nought to do with. Son of God! Go on redeeming!—I will go on damning. God! go on making!—I will go on marring.

Go on believing, man!⁠—I go on tempting.

Saint! angel! cherub! seraph! and archangel! Go ye on blessing!—I will go on cursing! I now retrack my course to earth; therein To work out what remaineth of the fate Of this man, and await his world’s destruction. What next may hap I care not.

Who says he loves and is not wretched, lies;

Or that love is madness came mad from his mother. ’Tis the most reasonable thing in nature. What can we do but love? It is our cup. Love is the cross and passion of the heart, Its end—its errand.

I never thought about it My love—Elissa! ah, how cold thy hand is! Here—warm it on my heart. Nay, let it be.

The hand that is on the heart is on the soul.

And it is thus some moments take the wheel, And steer us through eternity. Believe me, Could I but crowd life, love too, in one throb, I would beat it out, this moment, in thy hand, And would die blessing.

My sweet one! if this heart hath warmed thy hand, It hath not beaten in vain—it but returns A pleasure, and a passion, and a power: For oft at touch of thine this bosom burns.

Love hath no end except itself.

We only Felt we loved and were happy.

Love hath no end except itself. We only Felt we loved and were happy.

Our sole misfortune is, we have been happy; We never shall be happy here again.

Nay, say not so. Let us be happy now. Happy?

The least thing Dints thy soft heart. Come, cheer thee, sweet one—do! Oh! if to say, I love, laid all the sins Of all the worlds upon me, I would say it Till I was out of breath: and will, till I die.

If Love be blind, it must be by his tears;

For love and sorrow alway come together— Love with his sister, sorrow, by the hand.

If Love be blind, it must be by his tears;

For love and sorrow alway come together⁠—

Love with his sister, sorrow, by the hand.

do not frown; Nor look so temptingly angry. I was but trifling. The cold calm kiss which cometh as a gift, Not a necessity, is not for me, Whose bliss, whose woe, whose life, whose all is love.

We both wrong whom we love, love whom we wrong.

But I am as a dog that fondles o’er And licks the wound he dies of. Would I could Suffer or feel enough of love to kill!

And what of that? Love hath its own belief— Own worship—own morality—own laws:

And it were better that all love were sin Than that love were not.

It must have by-laws— Exceptions to the rules of earth and Heaven— For it means not the good it doth nor ill.

I do oft: And as oft wish dreams would, for once, come true.

The best of all things are dreams realised.

Dreams such as gods may dream thy soul possess For ever in the Hadeän Eden—Death: But bless thy lover with reality! Then, thou shalt live for ever, and with me.

Nay, I could mourn for them and pray for them. I can scorn nothing which a nation’s heart Hath held, for ages, holy: for the heart Is alike holy in its strength and weakness: It ought not to be jested with, nor scorned.

All things, to me, are sacred that have been.

And, though earth, like a river, streaked with blood, Which tells a long and silent tale of death, May blush her history and hide her eyes, The past is sacred—it is God’s: not ours. Let her and us do better if we can.

It ought not to be jested with, nor scorned. All things, to me, are sacred that have been. And, though earth, like a river, streaked with blood, Which tells a long and silent tale of death, May blush her history and hide her eyes,

The past is sacred⁠—it is God’s: not ours.

Let her and us do better if we can.

why can ye not impart Light to my heart? Have ye no feeling in ye? Why are ye bright when I am so unhappy? But oh! I would not change my woes for thrice The bliss of others, since they are for thee, love.

Our very wretchedness grows dear to us When suffering for one we love.

Sweet stars! I cannot look upon your loveliness Without sadness, for ye are too beautiful; And beauty makes unhappy: so men say. Ye stars! it is true—we read our fate in ye. Bright through all ages, are ye not happy there?

And thou hast said I was all light to thee. The stars grow bright together, and for aye, Lover-like, watch each other; and though apart, Like us, they fill each other’s eyes with love And beauty: and mine only fill with tears.

Oh! life is less than nothing without love!

And what is love without the embrace of love? I would give worlds for one more ere I die. Festus! come to me. I do think I am dying.

I am that star! as once before I told thee, Though thou wouldst not believe me, but I am A spirit, and a star—a power—an ill Which doth outbalance being. Look at me! Am I not more than mortal in my form?

Millions of years have circled round my brow Like worlds upon their centres;⁠—still I live; And age but presses with a halo’s weight.

This single arm hath dashed the light of Heaven; This one hand dragged the angels from their thrones:— Am I not worthy to have loved thee, lady? Thou mortal model of all Heavenliness!

And yet I have abandoned all these spoils, Cowered my powers, and becalmed my course, And stooped from the high destruction of the skies For thee, and for the youth who loveth thee— And is lost with ye: ye are both, both—lost!

Thou hast but served the purpose of the Fiend.

And thou art but the vessel of the sin Whose poison hath made drunk a soul to death; And he hath drunk; and thou art useless now. And it is for this I come; to bid thee die!

Thy death hall be as gentle as thy life. I will not hurt thee, for I loved thee once.

And thy sweet love, upon my burning breast, Fell like a snowflake on a fevered lip.

Thy soul shall pass out of thee like a dream. One moment more, and thou shalt wake in Heaven!

Alone.

The last high upward slant of sun on the trees, Like a dead soldier’s sword upon his pall, Seems to console earth for the glory gone.

Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus; The death-bed of a day, how beautiful! Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there; Fan it to slumber with your golden wings! Like pious prayers ye seem to soothe its end.

Alone. The last high upward slant of sun on the trees, Like a dead soldier’s sword upon his pall, Seems to console earth for the glory gone. Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus;

The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!

Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there; Fan it to slumber with your golden wings! Like pious prayers ye seem to soothe its end. It will wake no more till the all-revealing day;

O God! I fain would deem Thou livest not: And that this world hath sprung up from chance seed, Unknown to thee; and is not reckoned on.

Hell solves all doubts.⁠—Come to me, Lucifer!

Lo! I am here: and ever prompt when called for. How speed thy general pleasures?

Aught that I can or do love, shoots by me, Like a train upon an iron road. And yet I need not now reproach mine arm or aim; For I have winged each pleasure as it flew, How swift or high soever in its flight.

We cannot live alone. The heart must have A prop without, or it will fall and break.

But nature’s common joys are common cheats. As he who sails southwards, beholds, each night, New constellations rise, all dear, and fair;

New beauties wait upon as every where; New lights enlighten and new worlds attract. Bat I have seen and I have done with all.

Friendship hath passed me like a ship at sea;

And I have seen no more of it. I had A friend with whom, in boyhood, I was wont To learn, think, laugh, weep, strive, and love, together;

And there is no true knowledge till descent, Nor then till after. What shall make the truth Visible? Through the smoky glass of sense The blessed sun would never know himself.

All truth is one. All error is alike.

The shadow of a mountain hath no more Substance than hath a dead and moss-mailed pine’s; But only more gigantic impotence.

Nay, die with it must thou.

Why should I die? I am egg-full of life: And life’s as serious a thing as death.

The world is in its first young quarter yet; I dare not, cannot credit it shall die. I will not have it, then.

It is time to die. I am yet young; yet have I been deserted, And wronged, by those whom most I have loved and served. Sun, moon, and stars! may they all fall on me, When next I trust another—man or woman.

Earth rivals Hell too often, at the best.

All hearts are stronger for the being hollow. And that was why mine was no match for theirs. The pith is out of it now.—Lord of the world! It will not directly perish?

I am yet young; yet have I been deserted, And wronged, by those whom most I have loved and served. Sun, moon, and stars! may they all fall on me, When next I trust another—man or woman. Earth rivals Hell too often, at the best.

All hearts are stronger for the being hollow.

And that was why mine was no match for theirs. The pith is out of it now.—Lord of the world! It will not directly perish?

But the past Bears in her arms the present and the future; And what can perish while perdition is? From the hot, angry, crowding courts of doubt Within the breast, it is sweet to escape, and soothe The soul in looking upon natural beauty.

Oh! earth, like man her son, is half divine.

There is not a leaf within this quiet spot, But which I seem to know; should miss, if gone. I could run over its features, hour by hour.

and my soul, Once high and bright and self-sustained as Heaven, Unsettled now for life or death, feels like The grey gull balanced on her bowlike wings, Between two black waves seeking where to dive.

Long we live, thinking nothing of our fate, For in the morn of life we mark it not⁠— It falls behind; but as our day goes down We catch it lengthening with a giant’s stride, And ushering us unto the feet of night.

Dark thoughts, like spots upon the sun, revolve In troops fox days together round my soul, Disfiguring and dimming. Death! oh death! The past, the present, and the future, like The dog three-headed, by the gates of woe Sitting, seem ready to devour me each.

And whether the lip speak, or in inspired Silence we clasp our hearts as a shut book Of song unsung, the silence and the speech Is each His; and as coming from and going To Him, is worthy of Him and His Love.

Prayer is the spirit speaking truth to Truth; The expiration of the thing inspired.

I go. Thy God is with thee. We shall meet Again in Heaven, no more to part

memory runs To madness, like a river to the sea. Happy as Heaven have I been with thee, love! Thine innocent heart hath passed through a pure life, Like a white dove, wing-sunned through the blue sky. A better heart God never saved in Heaven.

She died as all the good die⁠—blessing⁠—hoping.

There are some hearts, aloe-like, flower once, and die: And hers was of them. Ah! all life hath ceased. And silence reads the dead world’s burial tale. And Death sits quivering, there, and watering, His great gaunt jaw at me. When must I die?

Happy as Heaven have I been with thee, love! Thine innocent heart hath passed through a pure life, Like a white dove, wing-sunned through the blue sky. A better heart God never saved in Heaven. She died as all the good die—blessing—hoping.

There are some hearts, aloe-like, flower once, and die:

And hers was of them. Ah! all life hath ceased. And silence reads the dead world’s burial tale. And Death sits quivering, there, and watering, His great gaunt jaw at me. When must I die?

Ute nearest point wherein we come towards Thee, Is loving—making love—and being happy. Thou wilt not chronicle our sandlike sins; For sin is small, and mean, and barren. Good, Only, is great, and generous, and fruitful.

Number the mountains, not the sands, O God!

God will not look as we do on our deeds; Nor yet as others. If He more condemn, Shall He not more approve? A few fair deeds Bedeck my life, like gilded cherubs on A tomb, beneath which lie dust, decay, and darkness.

Nor yet as others. If He more condemn, Shall He not more approve? A few fair deeds Bedeck my life, like gilded cherubs on A tomb, beneath which lie dust, decay, and darkness. But each is better than the other thinks.

Thank God! man is not to be judged by man:⁠— Or, man by man, the world would damn itself.

What do I see? It is the dead. They rise In clouds! and clouds come sweeping from all sides. Upwards to God: and now they are all gone— Gone, in a moment, to eternity. But there is something near me.

All prophecy Hath said the earth shall cease, and that right soon.

’Tis like enough. Beauty’s akin to Death.

Behold, our sister Graces of the skies, Faith, Hope, and Love, descend! Methinks of late Ye chiefly dwell on earth.