Poetry quotes

And death is far from him this sunny morn.

Why should we think of death when life is high?

The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night. The daylight’s labour and the night’s repose Are very good, each better in its time.

Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, And called himself hard names, and turned and went After his horses, bending like them his head.

Ah God! when Beauty passes from the door, Although she came not in, the house is bare:

Shut, shut the door; there’s nothing in the house! Why seems it always that she should be ours? A secret lies behind which thou dost know, And I can partly guess.

As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap, And gazing down into the glory-gulf, Dreamed as a boy half sleeping by the fire— Half dreaming rose, and got his horses out.

God, and not woman, is the heart of all.

But she, as priestess of the visible earth, Holding the key, herself most beautiful, Had come to him, and flung the portals wide. He entered: every beauty was a glass That gleamed the woman back upon his view. Shall I not rather say:

“Nay,” Psyche answered; “for a tired man May drop his eyelids on the visible world, To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free, Will bring the sunny excellence of day.

’Tis easy to destroy; God only makes.

Could my invention sweep the lucid waves With purple shadows—next create the joy With which my life beholds them?

The regnant Will gazed passive on the show; The magic tube through which the shadows came, Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, Glided across the field the things that were, Silent and sorrowful, like all things old:

Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, And old brown letters are more sad than graves.

At length, as ever in such vision-hours, Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse. Will started all awake, passive no more, And, necromantic sage, the apparition That came unbid, commanded to abide.

Sudden, with masterful, angry blare It howled from the watery west: The storm was up, he had left his lair! The night would be no jest!

He turned: a lady sat in his chair!

Through her loose dim robe her arm came bare, And it lay across her breast.

“Nay, nay; I know each mountain well, Each cliff, and peak, and dome! In that cloudland, in one high dell, Nesteth my little home.”

Better to smell the violet Than sip the glowing wine;

Better to hearken to a brook Than watch a diamond shine.

Better to smell the violet Than sip the glowing wine; Better to hearken to a brook Than watch a diamond shine.

Better to have a loving friend Than ten admiring foes;

Better a daisy’s earthy root Than a gorgeous, dying rose.

Better to sit at some man’s feet Than thrill a listening state;

Better suspect that thou art proud Than be sure that thou art great.

Better to walk the realm unseen Than watch the hour’s event; Better the “Well done, faithful slave!” Than the air with shoutings rent.

Better a death when work is done Than earth’s most favoured birth;

Better a child in God’s great house Than the king of all the earth.

Hark, the rain is on my roof! Every murmur, through the dark, Stings me with a dull reproof Like a half-extinguished spark. Me! ah me! how came I here, Wide awake and wide alone!

Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not A blessing just for me? Shall I be, barely, not forgot?— Never come home to thee?

Hast thou no care for this one child, This thinking, living need?

Or is thy countenance only mild, Thy heart not love indeed?

My soul with truth clothe all about, And I shall question free:

The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, In that fear doubteth thee.

Heavily slumbered noonday bright Upon the lone field, glory-dight, A burnished grassy sea: The child, in gorgeous golden hours, Through heaven-descended starry flowers, Went walking on the lea.

Therefore the prayerful song I sing May come to thee in ordered words: Though lowly born, it needs not cling In terror to its chords.

I think that nothing made is lost;

That not a moon has ever shone, That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed But to my soul is gone.

I think that nothing made is lost; That not a moon has ever shone, That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed But to my soul is gone.

That all the lost years garnered lie

In this thy casket, my dim soul; And thou wilt, once, the key apply, And show the shining whole.

They say that lonely sorrows do not chance: More gently, I think, sorrows together go; A new one joins the funeral gliding slow With less of jar than when it breaks the dance.

Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance;

Nature is generous to her children so.

They say that lonely sorrows do not chance: More gently, I think, sorrows together go; A new one joins the funeral gliding slow With less of jar than when it breaks the dance. Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance;

Nature is generous to her children so.

And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow, As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance The foot that must walk naked in life’s way— Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear, Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear, They …

… into the shadows dropt and dipt, Or reared from darkness up so holy-high?— Thou build’st the temple of thy holy ghost From hid foundation to high-hidden fate— Foot in the grave, head at the heavenly gate, From grave and sky filled with a fighting host!

Man is thy temple; man thy work elect;

His glooms and glory thine, great architect!

Man is thy temple; man thy work elect;

His glooms and glory thine, great architect!

If thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, What outbursts of pent glories, what new grace Had shone upon us from the great world’s face! How had we read, as in eternal books, The love of God in loneliest shiest nooks!

I know the Father: he knows me the truth. Truth-witness, therefore the one essential king, With thee I die, with thee live worshipping! O human God, O brother, eldest born, Never but thee was there a man in sooth,

Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn!

’Tis the midnight hour; I heard The Abbey-bell give out the word.

Yes, a window you may call it; Not the less up you must wall it: In that niche the dead world lies;

Bury death, and free mine eyes.

There were youths who held by me, Said I taught, yet left them free: Will they do as I said then? God forbid! As ye are men, Find the secret—follow and find! All forget that lies behind; Me, the schools, yourselves, forsake;

As my thoughts returned from their wandering, A voice in my spirit was lingering; And its sounds were like Spring’s first breeze’s hum, When the oak-leaves fall, and the young leaves come:

Time dieth ever, is ever born:

On the footsteps of night so treadeth the morn; Shadow and brightness, death and birth, Chasing each other o’er the round earth. But the spirit of Time from his tomb is springing, The dust of decay from his pinions flinging;

And some wandering hoping spirits May listen and be blest. For the sound may break the hours In a dark and gloomy mood, As the wind breaks up the bowers Of the brooding sunless wood.

For every sound of gladness

Is a prophet-wind that tells Of a summer without sadness, And a love without farewells; And a heart that hath no ailing, And an eye that is not dim, And a faith that without failing Shall be complete in Him.

For every sound of gladness

Is a prophet-wind that tells

Of a summer without sadness, And a love without farewells; And a heart that hath no ailing, And an eye that is not dim, And a faith that without failing Shall be complete in Him.

For every sound of gladness Is a prophet-wind that tells

Of a summer without sadness,

And a love without farewells; And a heart that hath no ailing, And an eye that is not dim, And a faith that without failing Shall be complete in Him.

For every sound of gladness Is a prophet-wind that tells Of a summer without sadness,

And a love without farewells;

And a heart that hath no ailing, And an eye that is not dim, And a faith that without failing Shall be complete in Him.

O humble man, O faithful son! That woman most forlorn Who yet thy father’s will hath done, Thee, son of man, hath born!

Life’s best things gather round its close

To light it from the door; When woman’s aid no further goes, She weeps and loves the more.

Life’s best things gather round its close

To light it from the door;

When woman’s aid no further goes, She weeps and loves the more.

An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom, Pervade the moveless air; The year is sinking to its tomb, And death is everywhere.

But while sad thoughts together creep,

Like bees too cold to sting, God’s children, in their beds asleep, Are dreaming of the spring.

But while sad thoughts together creep, Like bees too cold to sting, God’s children, in their beds asleep,

Are dreaming of the spring.

O night, send up the harvest moon To walk about the fields, And make of midnight magic noon On lonely tarns and wealds.

But while sad thoughts together creep,

Like bees too cold to sting,

God’s children, in their beds asleep, Are dreaming of the spring.

But while sad thoughts together creep, Like bees too cold to sting,

God’s children, in their beds asleep,

Are dreaming of the spring.

Showers yet must fall, and waters grow Dark-wan with furrowing blast; But suns will shine, and soft winds blow, Till the year flowers at last.

The sky is smiling over me,

Hath smiled away the frost; White daisies star the sky-like lea, With buds the wood’s embossed.

Yours is the day, sweet bird—sing on; The winter is forgot; Like an ill dream ’tis over and gone:

Pain that is past, is not.

Joy that was past is yet the same: If care the summer brings, ’Twill only be another name For love that broods, not sings.

My body ages, form and hue; But when the spring winds blow, My spirit stirs and buds anew, Younger than long ago.

Lord, make me more a child, and more,

Till Time his own end bring, And out of every winter sore I pass into thy spring.

Lord, make me more a child, and more,

Till Time his own end bring,

And out of every winter sore I pass into thy spring.

What treasure is there in manly might That hid in the bosom lies! Who for the crying will not fight

Had better be he that cries!

A man is a knight that loves the right And mounts for it till he dies.

What treasure is there in manly might That hid in the bosom lies! Who for the crying will not fight Had better be he that cries!

A man is a knight that loves the right

And mounts for it till he dies.

What treasure is there in manly might That hid in the bosom lies! Who for the crying will not fight Had better be he that cries! A man is a knight that loves the right

And mounts for it till he dies.

Alas, ’tis a dream of ages hoar! In the fens no dragons won; No giants from moated castles roar; Through the forest wide roadways run; Of all the deeds they did of yore Not one is left to be done!

What treasure is there in manly might That hid in the bosom lies!

Who for the crying will not fight

Had better be he that cries! A man is a knight that loves the right And mounts for it till he dies.

Lord, I have spoken a poor parable, In which I would have said thy name alone Is the one secret lying in Truth’s well,

Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone,

Thy face the heart of every flower on earth, Its vision the one hope; for every moan Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth Of little children seated on thy knee! O human God!

Lord, I have spoken a poor parable, In which I would have said thy name alone Is the one secret lying in Truth’s well, Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone,

Thy face the heart of every flower on earth,

Its vision the one hope; for every moan Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth Of little children seated on thy knee! O human God! I laugh with sacred mirth To think how all the laden shall go free;

“When I am older!”—“Nay, not so!” “I have hardly opened my eyes!” “He who to the old sunset would go,

Starts best with the young sunrise.

”

“When I am older!”—“Nay, not so!” “I have hardly opened my eyes!” “

He who to the old sunset would go,

Starts best with the young sunrise.”

“Pilgrims from near and from distant lands Will step on you lying there; But a wayfaring man with wounded hands Will carry you up the stair.”

Brother artist, help me; come!

Artists are a maimed band: I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Brother artist, help me; come! Artists are a maimed band:

I have words but not a hand;

Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Brother artist, help me; come! Artists are a maimed band: I have words but not a hand;

Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail— Vassal-words their hasting chief, On the white awaiting leaf Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king! “Welcome, sir Lark!—You look tired!” said he; “

Up is not always the best way to me:

While you have been racing my turban gray, I have been shining where you would not stay!”

For the Owl was born so poor and genteel What could he do but pick and steal? He scorned to work for honest bread— “

Better have never been hatched!

” he said. So his day was the night, for he dared not roam Till sleep had silenced the Bing, Bang, Bome!

“Why did you, my dear?” said his startled wife; “He has always been the plague of your life!” “I have given him a lesson of good for evil: Perhaps the old ruffian will now be civil!” The Owl sat righteous, he raised his comb.

The Bell bawled on, Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!

Of whispering trees the tongues to hear, And sermons of the silent stone; To read in brooks the print so clear Of motion, shadowy light, and tone— That man hath neither eye nor ear Who careth not for human moan.

Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste,

From sin that passeth helpless by;

The weak antennae of whose taste From touch of alien grossness fly— Shall, banished to the outer waste, Never in Nature’s bosom lie.

Her mother told me this: I caught A glimpse of something more:

Great meanings often hide behind

The little word before! And I brooded over my new text Till the seed a sermon bore.

Her mother told me this: I caught A glimpse of something more: Great meanings often hide behind

The little word before!

And I brooded over my new text Till the seed a sermon bore.

This is my sermon. It is preached Against all fretful strife. Chafe not with anything that is, Nor cut it with thy knife.

Ah! be not angry with the knot

That holdeth fast thy life.

This is my sermon. It is preached Against all fretful strife. Chafe not with anything that is, Nor cut it with thy knife. Ah! be not angry with the knot

That holdeth fast thy life.

When things are holding wonted pace In wonted paths, without a trace Or hint of neighbouring wonder, Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, A scent, a vision, swift, alone, Breaks common life asunder.

This is my sermon. It is preached Against all fretful strife.

Chafe not with anything that is,

Nor cut it with thy knife. Ah! be not angry with the knot That holdeth fast thy life.

This is my sermon. It is preached Against all fretful strife. Chafe not with anything that is,

Nor cut it with thy knife.

Ah! be not angry with the knot That holdeth fast thy life.

Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide— At Mary looked her lord. Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed;

Babe Jesus said never a word.

’Tis time to sleep, my little boy: Why gaze thy bright eyes so? At night our children, for new joy Home to thy father go, But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child; The moon and stars are gone;

Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide— At Mary looked her lord.

Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed;

Babe Jesus said never a word.

What makes summer, little one, Do you ask? It is the sun. Want of heat is all the harm,

Summer is but winter warm.

’Tis the sun—yes, that one there, Dim and gray, low in the air! Now he looks at us askance, But will lift his countenance Higher up, and look down straighter.

Not an answer? Tell without it? Yes—all that I know about it:— Mistletoe, then, cannot flourish, Cannot find the food to nourish But on other plant when planted—

And for kissing two are wanted.

That is why the kissy-birdie Looks about for oak-tree sturdy And the plant that grows upon it Like a wax-flower on a bonnet.

Where all life is in its nest, At loving one with holy Best;— Who knows?—with shadowy, dawning sense Of a past, age-long somnolence!

Nobody knows the world but me.

The rest go to bed; I sit up and see. I’m a better observer than any of you all, For I never look out till the twilight fall, And never then without green glasses, And that is how my wisdom passes.

Nobody knows the world but me.

The rest go to bed; I sit up and see.

I’m a better observer than any of you all, For I never look out till the twilight fall, And never then without green glasses, And that is how my wisdom passes.

At the dawning Psyche of his brain Joyous he wrought all night:

The oil went low, and he trimmed in vain,

The lamp would not burn bright; But he still wrought on: through the high roof-pane He saw the first faint light!

The lord of the Isles he laughed, and said: Only a king of the sea May think the Maid of the Isles to wed, And such, men call not thee!

Hold thine own three nights and days

In yon whirlpool of the sea, Or turn thy prow and go thy ways And let the isle-maiden be.

The storm it roared all day the third, The whirlpool wallowed about,

The night came down like a wild black bird,

But the cable of hair held out.

Over the blue sea sailed the bride In her love’s own sailing ship, And the witch she saw them across the tide As it rose to her lying lip.

Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead

Are strong hasps they to hold! Fled the true dove with the kite’s new love, And left the false kite with the old.

Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead

Are strong hasps they to hold!

Fled the true dove with the kite’s new love, And left the false kite with the old.

where the flower of hope? In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer! My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud, And summer crushed it with its weight of light!

Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs, Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore;

Summer is too complete for growing hearts— Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing, Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves; Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave;

A window through a vaulted roof of rain Lets in a light that comes from farther away, And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o’er the world: Man seeks a better home than Paradise;

Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, A disappointment better than a feast,

And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four.

A window through a vaulted roof of rain Lets in a light that comes from farther away, And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o’er the world:

Man seeks a better home than Paradise;

Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, A disappointment better than a feast, And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four.

I swell my one lung, I look big and I puff, And I sometimes hiss.—There, that’s enough!

Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs’ wings.

How did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here.

But when you had lost your greedy grief, Content to see from afar, Your hand it would hold a withering leaf, But your heart a shining star.

The lightning and thunder They go and they come: But the stars and the stillness Are always at home.

Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her sheep, And will not know where to find them; They are over the height and out of sight, Trailing their tails behind them!

But indeed I want to be great, I should despise mere show; The thing I want is the glory-state— Above the rest, you know!

The harder you run that race, The farther you tread that track, The greatness you fancy before your face Is the farther behind your back.

To be up in the heavens afar, Miles above all the rest, Would make a star not the greatest star, Only the dreariest.

I will tell you the only plan To climb and not to fall:

He who would rise and be greater than He is, must be servant of all.

Turn it each way in your mind, Try every other plan, You may think yourself great, but at length you’ll find You are not even a man.

You are turning from his call If you let that duty wait;

You would not think any duty small If you yourself were great.

The nearest is at life’s core; With the first, you all begin: What matter how little the little door If it only let you in?

I cry to one whom I can never know, Filling me with an infinite overflow; Not to a shape that dwells within my heart, Clothed in perfections love and truth assigned thee, But to the God thou knowest that thou art.

Not, Lord, because I have done well or ill;

Not that my mind looks up to thee clear-eyed; Not that it struggles in fast cerements tied; Not that I need thee daily sorer still; Not that I wretched, wander from thy will;

Not, Lord, because I have done well or ill; Not that my mind looks up to thee clear-eyed; Not that it struggles in fast cerements tied; Not that I need thee daily sorer still; Not that I wretched, wander from thy will;

Not now for any cause to thee I cry, But this, that thou art thou, and here am I.

Yestereve, Death came, and knocked at my thin door. I from my window looked: the thing I saw, The shape uncouth, I had not seen before. I was disturbed—with fear, in sooth, not awe;

Is the thing ever ours we cannot keep?— But their souls go not out into the deep. What matter if with changed song they come back? Old strength nor yet fresh beauty shall they lack.

Gloriously wasteful, O my Lord, art thou!

Sunset faints after sunset into the night, Splendorously dying from thy window-sill— For ever. Sad our poverty doth bow Before the riches of thy making might: Sweep from thy space thy systems at thy will— In thee the sun sets every sunset still.

I would be rich in love to heap you with love; I long to love you, sweet ones, perfectly— Like God, who sees no spanning vault above, No earth below, and feels no circling air— Infinitely, no boundary anywhere.

I am a beast until I love as God doth love.

Ah, say not, ’tis but perfect self I want But if it were, that self is fit to live Whose perfectness is still itself to scant, Which never longs to have, but still to give. A self I must have, or not be at all:

… dust, and self the centre clod, When grandeur is a hopeless, foolish dream, And anxious care more reasonable than God— Out of the ashes I will call to thee— In spite of dead distrust call earnestly:— Oh thou who livest, call, then answer dying me.

We are a shadow and a shining, we!

One moment nothing seems but what we see, Nor aught to rule but common circumstance— Nought is to seek but praise, to shun but chance;

But, like the impact of a burning coal, His presence mere straight rouses the garrison, And all are up in arms, and down on knee, Fighting and praying till the foe is gone.

Remember, Lord, thou hast not made me good.

Or if thou didst, it was so long ago I have forgotten—and never understood, I humbly think.

Make of me, maker, whatsoe’er thou wilt. Let fancy’s wings hang moulting, hope grow poor, And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt— I lose no time to reason it plain and clear, But fly to thee, my life’s perfection dear:—

Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.

This utterance of spirit through still thought, This forming of heart-stuff in moulds of brain, Is helpful to the soul by which ’tis wrought, The shape reacting on the heart again;

My Lord, I have no clothes to come to thee; My shoes are pierced and broken with the road; I am torn and weathered, wounded with the goad, And soiled with tugging at my weary load:

The more I need thee! A very prodigal

I stagger into thy presence, Lord of me: One look, my Christ, and at thy feet I fall!

The mortal man, all careful, wise, and troubled, The eternal child in the nursery doth keep. To-morrow on to-day the man heaps doubled; The child laughs, hopeful, even in his sleep.

The man rebukes the child for foolish trust; The child replies, “Thy care is for poor dust; Be still, and let me wake that thou mayst sleep.”

Till I am one, with oneness manifold, I must breed contradiction, strife, and doubt; Things tread Thy court—look real—take proving hold— My Christ is not yet grown to cast them out; Alas!

I will be very good to him—ah, nought Can reach the heart of his great loneliness! My whole heart I will bring him, with a moan That I may not come nearer; I will lie prone Before the awful loveliness in loneliness’ excess.”

A God must have a God for company.

And lo! thou hast the Son-God to thy friend. Thou honour’st his obedience, he thy law. Into thy secret life-will he doth see; Thou fold’st him round in live love perfectly— One two, without beginning, without end;

There comes no voice; I hear no word! But in my soul dawns something bright:—

There is no sea, no foe to fight!

Thy heart and mine beat one accord: I need no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night.

Lighter and sweeter Let your song be; And for sorrow—oh cheat her With melody!

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar

But cannot get the wood to burn; It hardly flares ere it begins to falter And to the dark return.

When the sounding waves of strife Have died on the Godhead’s sea, And thy life is a purer life That nurses a life in me.

Make not of thy heart a casket, Opening seldom, quick to close;

But of bread a wide-mouthed basket, Or a cup that overflows.

Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare? On sodden leaves do you tread? Is nothing left of all those fair? Is the whole summer fled? Well, so from this unwholesome air Have gone away these dead!

The seasons pierce me; like a leaf I feel the autumn blow,

And tremble between nature’s grief And the silent death below. O Summer, thou art very brief! Where do these exiles go?

She is dreaming the sky above her, She is dreaming the earth below:—

This night she lost her lover A hundred years ago.

Everything goes to its rest; The hills are asleep in the noon; And life is as still in its nest As the moon when she looks on a moon In the depth of a calm river’s breast As it steals through a midnight in June.

How oft have I laid fold from fold And peered into my mind— To see of all the purple and gold Not one gleam left behind!

The best of gifts will not be stored:

The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-hoard To keep new need away.

The best of gifts will not be stored: The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-hoard To keep new need away.

Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself;

Thy presence is thy light; I cannot lay it on my shelf, Or take it from thy sight.

But I consider further, and find

A hungry bird has a free mind;

He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.

But I consider further, and find A hungry bird has a free mind;

He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow,

Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.

But I consider further, and find A hungry bird has a free mind; He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.

Thy bird has pain, but has no fear

Which is the worst of any gear; When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day’s ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot:

Thy bird has pain, but has no fear

Which is the worst of any gear;

When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day’s ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot: Neither jumbles God’s will With driblets from his own still.

Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing! Keep the great windmill going full and free; So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going Till in burst the waters of God’s eternal sea.

Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid

Over whose couch the saving God did stand— “She is not dead but sleepeth,” said, And took her by the hand!

Wonder, oh, wonder! How the life-thunder Bursts on his ear in horror and dread! Happy shapes meet him; Heaven and earth greet him: Life from the dead!

Seek not my name⁠—it doth no virtue bear;

Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find— The name God called when thy ideal fair Arose in deeps of the eternal mind.

Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear!

There is not any weed but hath its shower,

There is not any pool but hath its star; And black and muddy though the waters are We may not miss the glory of a flower, And winter moons will give them magic power To spin in cylinders of diamond spar;

There is not any weed but hath its shower,

There is not any pool but hath its star;

And black and muddy though the waters are We may not miss the glory of a flower, And winter moons will give them magic power To spin in cylinders of diamond spar;

And yet I found him—as I found the lark, A sound in fields I heard but could not mark;

I found him nearest when I missed him most;

I found him in my heart, a life in frost, A light I knew not till my soul was dark.

And yet I found him—as I found the lark, A sound in fields I heard but could not mark; I found him nearest when I missed him most;

I found him in my heart, a life in frost,

A light I knew not till my soul was dark.

And yet I found him—as I found the lark, A sound in fields I heard but could not mark; I found him nearest when I missed him most; I found him in my heart, a life in frost,

A light I knew not till my soul was dark.

She comes! again she comes, the bright-eyed moon! Under a ragged cloud I found her out, Clasping her own dark orb like hope in doubt! That ragged cloud hath waited her since noon, And he hath found and he will hide her soon!

Blow not the less though winter cometh then;

Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen;

Let the spring creep into the ground again, The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen: All lives in thee that ever once hath been! Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms; Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.

All knowledges are broken shades, In gulfs of dark a scattered horde: Together rush the parted glory-grades—

Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!

My soul, the shadow, still is light Because the shadow falls from thee; I turn, dull candle, to the centre bright, And home flit shadowy.

All knowledges are broken shades, In gulfs of dark a scattered horde:

Together rush the parted glory-grades⁠—

Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!

Shine, Lord; shine me thy shadow still; The brighter I, the more thy shade! My motion be thy lovely moveless will!

My darkness, light delayed!

Come through the gloom of clouded skies, The slow dim rain and fog athwart; Through east winds keen with wrong and lies Come and lift up my hopeless heart.

Yea, on one steep mountain-side, Climbing to a fancied fold, Roses grasped had let me slide But the thorns did keep their hold.

Out of darkness light is born,

Out of weakness make me strong: One glad day will every thorn Break into a rose of song.

Out of darkness light is born,

Out of weakness make me strong:

One glad day will every thorn Break into a rose of song.

Fear, the caitiff, through the night Silent peers about; Love comes singing with a light And doth cast him out.

Hate and Guile and Wrath and Doubt

Never try to sing; If they did, oh, what a rout Anguished ears would sting!

Hate and Guile and Wrath and Doubt Never try to sing; If they did, oh, what a rout Anguished ears would sting!

Pride indeed will sometimes aim

At the finer speech, But the best that he can frame Is a peacock-screech.

Pride indeed will sometimes aim

At the finer speech,

But the best that he can frame Is a peacock-screech.

Pride indeed will sometimes aim At the finer speech,

But the best that he can frame

Is a peacock-screech.

Pride indeed will sometimes aim At the finer speech, But the best that he can frame

Is a peacock-screech.

Greed will also sometimes try: Happiness he hunts! But his dwelling is a sty, And his tones are grunts.

Pride indeed will sometimes aim At the finer speech, But the best that he can frame Is a peacock-screech.

Greed will also sometimes try:

Happiness he hunts! But his dwelling is a sty, And his tones are grunts.

Greed will also sometimes try: Happiness he hunts!

But his dwelling is a sty,

And his tones are grunts.

Greed will also sometimes try: Happiness he hunts! But his dwelling is a sty,

And his tones are grunts.

Faith will sometimes raise a song Soaring up to heaven, Then she will be silent long, And will weep at even.

But

Love singeth in the vault.

Singeth on the stair; Even for Sorrow will not halt, Singeth everywhere.

The misty air, the bellowing wind Not often trouble me; The storm that’s outside of the mind Doth oftener wake my heart to find

More peace and liberty.

Why is not such my fate to-night? Chance is not lord of things! Man were indeed a hapless wight Things, thoughts occurring as they might— Chaotic wallowings!

The misty air, the bellowing wind Not often trouble me;

The storm that’s outside of the mind

Doth oftener wake my heart to find More peace and liberty.

The misty air, the bellowing wind Not often trouble me; The storm that’s outside of the mind

Doth oftener wake my heart to find

More peace and liberty.

The born-child of a Power that lives Because it will and can, A Love whose slightest motion gives, A Freedom that forever strives To liberate his Man.

I live not on the circling air,

Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there Where God is pondering good.

I live not on the circling air, Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there

Where God is pondering good.

Because God lives I live; because He thinks, I also think; I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

I live not on the circling air,

Live not by daily food;

I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there Where God is pondering good.

I live not on the circling air, Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair,

I hold my very being there

Where God is pondering good.

I live not on the circling air, Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there Where God is pondering good.

Because God lives I live; because

He thinks, I also think; I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

Because God lives I live; because

He thinks, I also think;

I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

Because God lives I live; because He thinks, I also think; I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

The man that lives he knows not how

May well fear any mouse! I should be trembling this same now If I did think, my Father, thou Wast nowhere in the house!

The man that lives he knows not how May well fear any mouse! I should be trembling this same now If I did think, my Father, thou

Wast nowhere in the house!

O Father, lift me on thine arm, And hold me close to thee; Lift me into thy breathing warm, Then cast me, and I fear no harm, Into creation’s sea!

The man that lives he knows not how

May well fear any mouse!

I should be trembling this same now If I did think, my Father, thou Wast nowhere in the house!

The man that lives he knows not how May well fear any mouse!

I should be trembling this same now

If I did think, my Father, thou Wast nowhere in the house!

The man that lives he knows not how May well fear any mouse! I should be trembling this same now

If I did think, my Father, thou

Wast nowhere in the house!

You need not whisk your stump, nor turn away your nose;

Poor donkeys ain’t so stupid as rich horses may suppose!

I could feed in any manger just as well as you, Though I don’t despise a thistle—with sauce of dust and dew!

Few blows I get, some hay, and of water many a draught: I tell you he’s no coster that sits upon my shaft! And for the knacker’s yard—that’s not my destined bed: No donkey ever yet saw himself there lying dead.

Strait is the path? He means we must not roam?

Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.

Strait is the path? He means we must not roam?

Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.

Close her eyes: she must not peep! Let her little puds go slack; Slide away far into sleep: Sis will watch till she comes back!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright: Mother’s sitting just behind: Father’s only out of sight;

God is round us like the wind.

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor, Sweep the dust, pick up the pin; Make it clean from fire to door, Clean for father to come in!

And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer, Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest, Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest With what thou bring’st from that ethereal height, Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share:

He needs no eyes who is a shining light!

Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere, Forgive my play fantastic with thy name, Distilling its true essence by the flame Which Love ’neath Fancy’s limbeck lighteth clear. I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer;

Send thy birth into our souls, With its grand and tender story. Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!— News to men! to God old glory!

Though in my heart no Christmas glee,

Though my song-bird be dumb, Jesus, it is enough for me That thou art come.

Though in my heart no Christmas glee,

Though my song-bird be dumb,

Jesus, it is enough for me That thou art come.

Though in my heart no Christmas glee, Though my song-bird be dumb,

Jesus, it is enough for me

That thou art come.

A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:

I only faced the foe, and did not flee.

Gray clouds my heaven have covered o’er; My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; Ghastly and dry, my desert shore Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.

They are thy garments; thou art near within, Father of fathers, friend-creating friend! Thou art for ever, therefore I begin;

Thou lov’st, therefore my love shall never end!

Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child; I pray thee, father, give me everything; Give me the joy that makes the children wild; Give throat and heart an old new song to sing.

They are thy garments; thou art near within, Father of fathers, friend-creating friend!

Thou art for ever, therefore I begin;

Thou lov’st, therefore my love shall never end!

Then I will not be afraid Any ill can come to me; When ’tis time to go to bed, I will rise and go with thee— Saith the little brother.

My to-morrow is but a flitting

Fancy of the brain; God’s to-morrow an angel sitting, Ready for joy or pain.

My to-morrow is but a flitting Fancy of the brain;

God’s to-morrow an angel sitting,

Ready for joy or pain.

My to-morrow is but a flitting Fancy of the brain; God’s to-morrow an angel sitting,

Ready for joy or pain.

My to-morrow has no soul, Dead as yesterdays; God’s—a brimming silver bowl Of life that gleams and plays.

My to-morrow, I mock you away! Shadowless nothing, thou! God’s to-morrow, come, dear day, For God is in thee now.

Waking in the night to pray,

Sleeping when the answer comes, Foolish are we even at play— Tearfully we beat our drums! Cast the good dry bread away, Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

Waking in the night to pray, Sleeping when the answer comes, Foolish are we even at play— Tearfully we beat our drums!

Cast the good dry bread away,

Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

Waking in the night to pray, Sleeping when the answer comes, Foolish are we even at play— Tearfully we beat our drums! Cast the good dry bread away,

Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

“Evermore,” while shines the day, “Lord,” we cry, “thy will be done!” Soon as evening groweth gray, Thy fair will we fain would shun! “Take, oh, take thy hand away! See the horrid dark begun!”

Waking in the night to pray,

Sleeping when the answer comes,

Foolish are we even at play— Tearfully we beat our drums! Cast the good dry bread away, Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

Gathering potsherds all the day, Truant children, Lord, we roam; Fret, and longer want to play, When at cool thy voice doth come!— Elder Brother, lead the way; Make us good as we go home.

Love is the part, and love is the whole;

Love is the robe, and love is the pall; Ruler of heart and brain and soul, Love is the lord and the slave of all! I thank thee, Love, that thou lov’st me; I thank thee more that I love thee.

Because of half-way things that hold Good names, and have a poisonous breath— Prudence that is but trust in gold, And faith that is but fear of death— Amongst thy flowers, the lovely brood, Thou sendest some that are not good.

Thou stay’st thy hand from finishing things

To make thy child love the complete; Full many a flower comes up thy springs Unshamed in imperfection sweet; That through good all, and good in part, Thy work be perfect in the heart.

Thou stay’st thy hand from finishing things

To make thy child love the complete;

Full many a flower comes up thy springs Unshamed in imperfection sweet; That through good all, and good in part, Thy work be perfect in the heart.

Saint Peter, thou rebukest well! It needs no tempest me to quell, Not even a spent lash of its spray! Things far too little to affray Will wake the doubt that’s worst of all—

Is there a God to hear me call?

But if he be, I never think That he will hear and let me sink!

Saint Peter, thou rebukest well! It needs no tempest me to quell, Not even a spent lash of its spray! Things far too little to affray Will wake the doubt that’s worst of all— Is there a God to hear me call?

But if he be, I never think

That he will hear and let me sink!

It needs no tempest me to quell, Not even a spent lash of its spray! Things far too little to affray Will wake the doubt that’s worst of all— Is there a God to hear me call? But if he be, I never think

That he will hear and let me sink!

Lord of my little faith, my Lord, Help me to fear nor fire nor sword; Let not the cross itself appall Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all; Let reeling brain nor fainting heart Wipe out the soreness that thou art;

Vanity, then, of vanities All things for which men grasp and grope! The precious things in heavenly eyes Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope.

Better the clown who God doth love

Than he that high can go And name each little star above But sees not God below!

Better the clown who God doth love

Than he that high can go

And name each little star above But sees not God below!

Wouldst thou in knowledge true advance And gather learning’s fruit, In love confess thy ignorance,

And thy Self-love confute.

This is the highest learning, The hardest and the best— From self to keep still turning, And honour all the rest.

This is the highest learning, The hardest and the best—

From self to keep still turning,

And honour all the rest.

This is the highest learning, The hardest and the best— From self to keep still turning,

And honour all the rest.

If one should break the letter, Yea, spirit of command, Think not that thou art better, Thou may’st not always stand!

Farewell, O Arm of the Lord! Man who hated the sword, Yet struck and spared not the thing abhorred! Farewell, O word of the Word! Man who knew no failure But the failure of the Lord!

A broken tale of endless things,

Take, lady: thou art not of those Who in what vale a fountain springs Would have its journey close.

Countless beginnings, fair first parts, Leap to the light, and shining flow; All broken things, or toys or hearts,

Are mended where they go.

Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; ’Tis God that has begun the tale And does not mean to end.

Countless beginnings, fair first parts, Leap to the light, and shining flow;

All broken things, or toys or hearts,

Are mended where they go.

Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; ’Tis God that has begun the tale

And does not mean to end.

The sun is sinking in the west, Long grow the shadows dim; Have patience, sister, to be blest, Wait patiently for Him.

Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, Float faithful fearless on, loved friend;

’Tis God that has begun the tale

And does not mean to end.

Thy heart still open to receive, Open thy hand to give, God had thee graced with more than leave In heavenly state to live!

And though thou art gone up so high

Thou art not gone so far But that thy love to us comes nigh, As starlight from a star.

And though thou art gone up so high

Thou art not gone so far

But that thy love to us comes nigh, As starlight from a star.

And though thou art gone up so high Thou art not gone so far

But that thy love to us comes nigh,

As starlight from a star.

And though thou art gone up so high Thou art not gone so far But that thy love to us comes nigh,

As starlight from a star.

And ours must reach where’er thou art, In far or near abode, For God is of all love the heart, And we are all in God.

And ours must reach where’er thou art, In far or near abode, For God is of all love the heart, And we are all in God.

The croak of a raven hoar!

A dog’s howl, kennel-tied! Loud shuts the carriage-door: The two are away on their ghastly ride To Death’s salt shore!

He sang to himself, “What shall I do With this life that thrills me through and through! Glad is so glad that it turns to ache!

Out with it, song, or my heart will break!

”

He sang to himself, “What shall I do With this life that thrills me through and through!

Glad is so glad that it turns to ache!

Out with it, song, or my heart will break!”

He sang to me, “Man, do not fear Though the moon goes down and the dark is near; Listen my song and rest thine eyes;

Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!

”