A woman’s pity sometimes makes her mad.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
When the dust of death has choked a great man’s voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.
He’s just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He’d wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.
Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!
And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?
Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.
Very whitely still The lilies of our lives may reassure Their blossoms from their roots, accessible Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer; Growing straight out of man’s reach, on the hill. God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.
Yet half the beast is the great god Pan, To laugh, as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain – For the reed that grows never more again As a reed with the reeds of the river.
The large white owl that with eye is blind, That hath sate for years in the old tree hollow, Is carried away in a gust of wind.
There’s nothing great Nor small, has said a poet of our day, Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve And not be thrown out by the matin’s bell.
O brave poets, keep back nothing; Nor mix falsehood with the whole! Look up Godward! speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul! Hold, in high poetic duty, Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.
Every wish Is like a prayer – with God.
You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?
Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist’s music deep, Now tell me if that any is. For gift or grace, surpassing this – He giveth His beloved sleep.
And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
I wish I were the lily’s leaf To fade upon that bosom warm, Content to wither, pale and brief, The trophy of thy paler form.
My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.
Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.