God is in his Heaven, all’s right with the world.
Genius has somewhat of the infantine; but of the childish not a touch or taint.
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
A lion may die of an ass’s kick.
All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Is your love for the Lord sufficient to give all your time and talents to his work?
What’s come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven; Works done least rapidly Art most cherishes.
A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all.
Are there not, dear Michael, Two points in the adventure of the diver,- One, when a beggar he prepares to plunge; One, when a prince he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge.
Truth is within ourselves. There is an inmost center in us all, where the truth abides in fullness.
Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven’s employ?
He guides me and the bird. In His good time!
The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.
Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving; Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!
A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
I know a mount, the gracious Sun perceives First when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world; and, vainly favored, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow.
I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her.