Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.
Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.
To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.
My loss may shine yet goodlier than your gain When Time and God give judgment.
Ah that such sweet things should be fleet, Such fleet things sweet.
Change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue; For the raptures and roses of vice.
I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter; For men that sow and reap.
For in the days we know not of Did fate begin Weaving the web of days that wove Your doom.
Though our works Find righteous or unrighteous judgment, this At least is ours, to make them righteous.
Our way is where God knows And Love knows where We are in Loves hand to-day.
A babys feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angels lips to kiss, we think, A babys feet.
And lo, between the sundawn and the sun His days work and his nights work are undone And lo, between the nightfall and the light, He is not, and none knoweth of such an one.
There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.
Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold.
It is long since Mr. Carlyle expressed his opinion that if any poet or other literary creature could really be 'killed off by one critique' or many, the sooner he was so despatched the better a sentiment in which I for one humbly but heartily concur.
At the door of life by the gate of breath, There are worse things waiting for men than death.
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
All gifts but one the jealous God may keep From our soul's longing, one he cannot - sleep. This, though he grudge all other grace to prayer, This grace his closed hand cannot choose but spare.
Fear that makes faith may break faith.
A blatant Bassarid of Boston, a rampant Maenad of Massachusetts.
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean the world has grown grey from thy breath; We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death.
Maiden, and mistress of the months and stars; Now folded in the flowerless fields of heaven.
Glory to Man in the highest! For Man is the master of things.
Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.
There lived a singer in France of old; By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and ruin and gold; There shone one woman, and none but she.
Come down and redeem us from virtue, Our Lady of Pain.
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fill the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
Sleep and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet give thanks thou hast no more to live And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.
The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
Is not Precedent indeed a King of men A Word from the Psalmist.
A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.
From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
I am that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me God and man; I am equal and whole; God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily I am the soul.
A creed is a rod, And a crown is of night; But this thing is God; To be man with thy might, To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light.
Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.
Let us rise up and part she will not know. Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam.
His speech is a burning fire.
Despair the twin-born of devotion.
Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise.
The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.
I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met You hoped we were both broken-hearted And knew we should both forget.
To say of shame - what is it? Of virtue - we can miss it; Of sin-we can kiss it, And it's no longer sin.
Gone deeper than all plummets sound.
But from sharp words and wits men pluck no fruit And gathering thorns they shake the tree at root For words divide and rend, But silence is most noble till the end.
Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat, They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.
There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.
Ah, yet would God this flesh of mine might be Where air might wash and long leaves cover me Where tides of grass break into foam of flowers, Or where the winds feet shine along the sea.
Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
While three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three.
Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
We shift and bedeck and bedrape us, Thou art noble and nude and antique.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories