In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven than now.
Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you’ll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!
Most progress is most failure.
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was of us, Burns, Shelley, were with us. They watch from their graves!
Desire joy and thank God for it. Renounce it, if need be, for other’s sake. That’s joy beyond joy.
Faultless to a fault.
How good is life, the mere living!
My business is not to remake myself, but to make the absolute best of what God made.
O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth’s male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
Progress is The law of life: man is not Man as yet.
All poetry is difficult to read – The sense of it anyhow.
If two lives join, there is oft a scar. They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far.
What a thing friendship is – World without end.
Smiling the boy fell dead.
Pippa’s Song The year’s at the spring The day’s at the morn Morning’s at seven, The Hill side’s dew-pearled The lark’s on the wing The snail’s on the thorn God’s in his heaven- All’s right with the world.
Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name’s sake.
I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.
Never brag, never bluster, never blush.