Some people always sigh in thanking God.
Some people always sigh in thanking God.
Knowledge by suffering entereth And Life is perfected by Death.
He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
In the pleasant orchard closes, God bless all our gains', say we But May God bless all our losses' Better suits with our degree.
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell, By reiteration chiefly.
Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens.
God, how the house feels!
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,-
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!
Death forerunneth Love to win 'Sweetest eyes were ever seen.'
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there At this or that box, pulling through the gap, In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, The first book first.
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
And, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
For I, a woman, have only known
How the heart melts and the tears run down.
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 'Let no one be called happy till his death;' to which I would add, 'Let no one, till his death, be called unhappy.'
Then, drawing breath,
She struggled for her ordinary calm
And missed it rather, told me not to shrink,
As if she had told me not to lie or swear, --
`She loved my father, and would love me too
As long as I deserved it.
Light tomorrow with today!
His last word was, `Love --'
Love, my child, love, love!
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
Come autumn's scathe come winter's cold
Come change and human fate!
Think, in mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence.
I see thine image through my tears to-night,
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
I think we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's.
Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
He reigns below, He reigns alone,
And, having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the Jealous God.
The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.
A hope, to sing by gladly?
The Holy Night We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Toward the newly Born The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange sweet angel-tongue The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh, and gold These baby hands were impotent to hold So let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One.
Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres.
My sun sets to raise again.
But thou art not such
A lover, my Beloved!
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone
Love remains for shining.
And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray ?
What monster have we here A great Deed at this hour of day A great just deed -- and not for pay Absurd -- or insincere.
But, now I look upon my flowers, decay
Has met them in my hands more fatally
Because more warmly clasped,--and sobs are free
To come instead of songs.
Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate,' which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
Experience, like a pale musician, holds; A dulcimer of patience in his hand.
Heaven is high;
Sing, poet with the sorrow !
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving-
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories