When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide,- "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask: But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies; "God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
"Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."
Drop, drop, slow tears,
And bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from Heaven
The news and Prince of Peace!
Cease not, wet eyes,
His mercy to entreat;
To cry for vengeance
Sin doth never cease;
In your deep floods
Drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let His eye
See sin but through my tears.
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. Full desertness In souls, as countries, lieth silent, bare, Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death; Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,
Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet, Where I to thee eternity shall give
When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise;
Virgins and matrons reading these, my rhymes, Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, To have seen thee, their sex's only glory;
So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.
I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR
I do not love thee for that fair Rich fan of thy most curious hair, Though the wires thereof be drawn Finer than the threads of lawn, And are softer than the leaves On which the subtle spider weaves.
I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, - love's bowers, - Though such cunning them hath spread, None can paint them white and red. Love's golden arrows thence are shot, Yet for them I love thee not.
I do not love thee for those soft Red coral lips I've kissed so oft; Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard To speech whence music still is heard, Though from those lips a kiss being taken Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.
I do not love thee, O my fairest, For that richest, for that rarest Silver pillar which stands under Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; Though that neck be whiter far Than towers of polished ivory are.
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving As an infant's asleep :
So the spirit bows before thee To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
My love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.
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