Sorrow, the heart must bear, Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there. Many a circumstance, at least, Touches the very breast. For those Whom any sent away, – he knows: And in the live man’s stead, Armor and ashes reach The house of each.
I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chatted all the way; But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow; And ne’er a word said she; But, oh! The things I learned from her, When Sorrow walked with me.
I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
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.
Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
How very hard it is to be a Christian!
Say not “a small event!” Why “small”? Costs it more pain that this ye call A “great event” should come to pass From that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!
Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth’s smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
Death was past, life not come: so he waited.
That we devote ourselves to God, is seen In living just as though no God there were.