| |
| | And half in shade and half in sun; |
| The rose sat in her bower, |
| With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart. |
| 1 |
| | And rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds, |
| Is one with Prayer. |
| 2 |
| | Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance, |
| Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air, |
| Thy battlements hang o’er the slopes and the forests, |
| Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether, |
| Looming sublimely aloft and afar. |
| 3 |
| | Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent, |
| To give consoling music for the joys |
| We lack, and not for those which we possess. |
| 4 |
| | But still I dream that somewhere there must be |
| The spirit of a child that waits for me. |
| 5 |
| | Dead is the air, and still! the leaves of the locust and walnut |
| Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines |
| Rather on space than the sky—on a tideless expansion of slumber. |
| 6 |
| | Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, |
| And soon the grassy coverlet of God |
| Spreads equal green above their ashes pale. |
| 7 |
| | Departed suns their trails of splendor drew |
| Across departed summers: whispers came |
| From voices, long ago resolved again |
| Into the primeval Silence, and we twain, |
| Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, |
| As in a spectral mirror wandered there. |
| 8 |
| | Each separate star |
| Seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars |
| Break up the night, and make it beautiful. |
| 9 |
| | Fame is what you have taken, |
| Character’s what you give; |
| When to this truth you waken, |
| Then you begin to live. |
| 10 |
| | He teaches best, |
| Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast, |
| And knows their strength or weakness through his own. |
| 11 |
| | Higher than the perfect song |
| For which love longeth, |
| Is the tender fear of wrong, |
| That never wrongeth. |
| 12 |
| | I love thee, I love but thee, |
| With a love that shall not die |
| Till the sun grows cold, |
| And the stars are old, |
| And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! |
| 13 |
| | Love’s history, as Life’s, is ended not |
| By marriage. |
| 14 |
| | Our life is scarce the twinkle of a star |
| In God’s eternal day. |
| 15 |
| | Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest |
| Your truth and valor wearing: |
| The bravest are the tenderest,— |
| The loving are the daring. |
| 16 |
| | Sometimes an hour of Fate’s serenest weather |
| Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams; |
| Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, |
| Waits the fulfillment of our dearest dreams. |
| 17 |
| | Sweeter than the stolen kiss |
| Are the granted kisses. |
| 18 |
| | The clouds are scudding across the moon, |
| A misty light is on the sea; |
| The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, |
| And the foam is flying free. |
| 19 |
| | The knowledge of my sin |
| Is half-repentance. |
| 20 |
| |
|
|
| |
| | The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, |
| In the slow process of the doubtful years. |
| 21 |
| | “The Prophet’s words were true; |
| The mouth of Ali is the golden door |
| Of Wisdom,” |
| When his friends to Ali bore |
| These words, he smiled and said: “And should they ask |
| The same until my dying day, the task |
| Were easy; for the stream from Wisdom’s well, |
| Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.” |
| 22 |
| | The source of each accordant strain |
| Lies deeper than the Poet’s brain. |
| First from the people’s heart must spring |
| The passions which he learns to sing; |
| They are the wind, the harp is he, |
| To voice their fitful melody,— |
| The language of their varying fate, |
| Their pride, grief, love, ambition, hate,— |
| The talisman which holds inwrought |
| The touchstone of the listener’s thought; |
| That penetrates each vain disguise, |
| And brings his secret to his eyes. |
| 23 |
| | The stream from Wisdom’s well, |
| Which God supplies, is inexhaustible. |
| 24 |
| | The woods appear |
| With crimson blotches deeply dashed and crossed,— |
| Sign of the fatal pestilence of Frost. |
| 25 |
| | There may come a day |
| Which crowns Desire with gift, and Art with truth, |
| And Lore with bliss, and Life with wiser youth! |
| 26 |
| | They sang of love and not of fame; |
| Forgot was Britain’s glory; |
| Each heart recalled a different name, |
| But all sang “Annie Laurie.” |
| 27 |
| | ’Twas glory once to be a Roman;She makes it glory, now, to be a man. |
| 28 |
| | Yonder fly his scattered golden arrows, |
| And smite the hills with day. |
| 29 |
| Alone each heart must cover up its dead; alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest. | 30 |
| By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none. | 31 |
| Eccentricity is developed monomania. | 32 |
| For life lives only in success. | 33 |
| Labor, you know, is prayer. | 34 |
| Life lives only in success. | 35 |
| Love’s humility is love’s true pride. | 36 |
| Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity. | 37 |
| Next to ye both I love the palm, with his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm. | 38 |
| Not many but good books. | 39 |
| Opportunity is rare, and a wise man will never let it go by him. | 40 |
| Pardon, not wrath, is God’s best attribute. | 41 |
| Peace the offspring is of power. | 42 |
| Pens carry further than rifled cannon. | 43 |
| Shelved around us lie the mummied authors. | 44 |
| Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee. | 45 |
| The glories of the possible are ours. | 46 |
| The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same. | 47 |
| The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool. | 48 |
| The poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, in the slow process of the doubtful years. | 49 |
| Those who would attain to any marked degree of excellence in a chosen pursuit must work, and work hard for it, prince or peasant. | 50 |
| To learn by observation is traveling, people must also bring knowledge with them. | 51 |
| To Truth’s house there is a single door, which is experience. | 52 |
| Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse. | 53 |
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