Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.
One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
Truths that wake To perish never.
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
Wisdom married to immortal verse.
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!