For tis not in mere death that men die most.
For tis not in mere death that men die most.
Who so loves believes the impossible.
And therefore if to love can be desert,
I am not all unworthy.
Oh, the world is weak!
He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Hurt a fly He would not for the world he's pitiful to flies even. ''Sing,'' says he, ''and tease me still, if that's your way, poor insect.''
For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
O mother, look back
To the first love's assurance.
What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.
If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
They say that God lives very high But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God. And why And if you dig down in the mines You never see Him in the gold, Though from Him all thats glory shines. God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face Like secrets kept, for love, untold. But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place As if my tender brother laid On my shut lids, her kisses pressure, Half waking me at night and said, 'Who kissed through the dark, dear guesser'
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me-toll
The silver iterance!
Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.
Since when was genius found respectable?
What art can a woman be good at?
Ere I answered he was gone,
And none was left to love in all the world.
Let us stay
Rather on earth, Beloved,-where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.
But, there,
The silver answer rang, -- Not Death, but Love.
The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, producing what A pair of slippers, sir, to put on when you're weary -- or a stool. To stumble over and vex you... ''curse that stool'' Or else at best, a cushion, where you lean and sleep, and dream of something we are not, but would be for your sake. Alas, alas This hurts most, this... that, after all, we are paid the worth of our work, perhaps.
I made them indeed
Speak plain the word country.
World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.
She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories