But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!
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!
Of writing many books there is no end.
Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.
Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.
The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.
She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.
But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!
And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.
A grave, on which to rest from singing?
Capacity for joy Admits temptation.
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow But thinking of a wreath, . . . I like such ivy; bold to leap a height 'Twas strong to climb! as good to grow on graves As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too (And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.
O, brothers! let us leave the shame and sin Of taking vainly in a plaintive mood, The holy name of Grief--holy herein, That, by the grief of One, came all our good.
And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.
Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart.
Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
For poets (bear the word) Half-poets even, are still whole democrats.
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits--so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
Purple lilies Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.
And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?
I worked with patience which means almost power.
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