What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.
I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute.
Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.
As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.
I have lived, And seen God’s hand thro a life time, And all was for the best.
Would you have your songs endure? Build on the human heart.
God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod.
Let’s contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before Love, – Only sleep.
But facts are facts and flinch not.
The great beacon light God sets in all, the conscience of each bosom.
Though Rome’s gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.
Look not down but up!
God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that.
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!
That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.