Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.
These two imparadised in one another’s arms, the happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill of bliss on bliss.
So may’st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother’s lap.
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
That practis’d falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch’d with revenge.
Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.
Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush’d the sweet poison of misused wine.
Enflamed with the study of learning and the admiration of virtue; stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous to all ages.
Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of ev’n or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north – wind’s breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.
For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.
Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!
Immediate are the acts of God, more swift than time or motion.