What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
God is the perfect poet.
Go practice if you please with men and women: leave a child alone for Christ’s particular love’s sake!
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
Graved inside of it, “Italy”.
Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.
So free we seem, so fettered we are!
It is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.
Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it ‘Italy.’
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.