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Сторінка 470 - All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist: Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power, Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
Сторінка 296 - How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy!
Сторінка 467 - Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Сторінка 405 - There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
Сторінка 246 - I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Сторінка 291 - Truth is within ourselves ; it takes no rise From outward things, whate'er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fulness ; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception — which is truth.
Сторінка 279 - And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever : it may be a sound — A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound ; XXIV.
Сторінка 133 - If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time ; I press God's lamp Close to my breast — its splendour, soon or late, Will pierce the gloom : I shall emerge one day ! You understand me ? I have said enough ? Fest.
Сторінка 404 - No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Сторінка 402 - Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.