The dwelling-place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost.
The dwelling-place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost.
Peace, peace he is not dead, he doth not sleep He hath awaken from the dream of life.
Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret.
My hopes were once like fire;
I loved, and I believed that life was love.
I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled
The veil of life and death?
Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.
I love Love -though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee -
Thou art love and life!
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity.
On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.
Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:-the power is there,
The still and solemn power of many sights,
And many sounds, and much of life and death.
All things are sold the very light of heaven is venal earth's unsparing gifts of love, the smallest and most despicable things that lurk in the abysses of the deep, all objects of our life, even life itself, and the poor pittance which the laws allow of liberty, the fellowship of man, those duties which his heart of human love should urge him to perform instinctively, are bought and sold as in a public mart of not disguising selfishness, that sets on each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign.
There is emotion
In all that dwells at noontide here;
Then through the intricate wild wood
A maze of life and light and motion
Is woven.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud I fall upon the thorns of life I bleed.
Lift not the painted veil which those who live Call Life.
An unskilled hand, yet one informed
With genius, had the marble warmed
With that pathetic life.
The breath of accusation kills an innocent name, and leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, which is a mask without it
I fall upon the thorns of life!
A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth.
Life may change, but it may fly not Hope may vanish, but can die not Truth be veiled, but still it burneth Love repulsed, - but it returneth.
I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories