The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty.
Such ever was love’s way: to rise, it stoops.
Be sure that God Ne’er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.
All’s love, yet all’s law.
For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man’s loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.
Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
Into the street the piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while. And the piper advanced And the children followed.
All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white-we call it black.
Life is an empty dream.
In God’s good time, Which does not always fall on Saturday When the world looks for wages.
They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
Truth never hurt the teller.
When is man strong until he feels alone? Colombe’s Birthday.
The best way to excape his ire Is, not to seem too happy.
The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.
Day! Faster and more fast. O’er night’s brim, day boils at last.
The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!
And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.
And inasmuch as feeling, the East’s gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.