Cloudy walls divide and fly,
As in April weather!
Cloudy walls divide and fly,
As in April weather!
Life treads on life, and heart on heart We press too close in church and mart, To keep a dream or grave apart
I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirit so far off
From myself-me-that I should bring thee proof
In words, of love hid in me out of reach.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time.
Eve is a twofold mystery.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation!
Behold, I erred
In that last doubt!
For frequent tears have run
The colors from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
The seraph sings before the manifest
God-One, and in the burning of the Seven,
And with the full life of consummate
Heaving beneath him like a mother's
Warm with her first-born's slumber in that
The poet sings upon the earth grave-riven,
Before the naughty world, soon self-forgiven
For wronging him,--and in the darkness prest
From his own soul by worldly weights.
Books succeed, and lives fail.
I marvel how the birds can sing.
O dready life,' we cry, ' O dreary life !
Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.
For oft I read within my nook
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,
And then I shut the book.
An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years
This is the poet and his poetry.
There is no God,' the foolish saith, But none, 'There is no sorrow.' And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised And lips say, 'God be pitiful,' Who ne'er said, 'God be praised.'
I taught them, no doubt,
That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.
I thought the funeral-shears
Would take this first, but Love is justified,-
Take it thou,-finding pure, from all those years,
The kiss my mother left here when she died.
This race is never grateful from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth.
Cloud-walls of the morning's grey,
Faced with amber column,---
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn!
We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men
If you desire faith, then you have faith enough.
The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.
How do I love thee Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
Alas, I have grieved sol am hard to love.
I bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy.
Children use the fist Until they are of the age to use the brain.
Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.
True genius, but true woman!
Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire.
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it.
And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness His rest.
God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.
And honour us with truth if not with praise.
He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean
And, shining with a gloom, the water grey
Swang in its moon-taught way.
How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.
Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
And still I laughed, and did not fear
But that, whene'er was past away
The childish time, some happier play
My womanhood would cheer.
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
O earth, so full of dreary noises O men, with wailing in your voices O delvd gold, the wailers heap O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth his beloved, sleep.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories