Yet when could truth come whole and pure
From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?
‘T is not the calm and peaceful breast
That sees or reads the problem true;
They only know, on whom ‘t has prest
Too hard to hope to solve it too.
Our ills are worse than at their ease
These blameless happy souls suspect,
They only study the disease,
Alas, who live not to detect.
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To spend uncounted years of pain,
In working out in heart and brainThe problem of our being here;To gather facts from far and near,Upon the mind to hold them clear,And, knowing more may yet appear,Unto one’s latest breath to fearThe premature result to draw–Is this the object, end and law,And purpose of our being here?
Whate’er you dream, with doubt possessed,
And lay you down and take your rest;And when you wake, to work again,The wind it blows, the vessel goes,And where and whither, no one knows.‘Twill all be well: no need of care;Though how it will, and when, and where,We cannot see, and can’t declare.In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,‘Tis not in vain,…
Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane,
With zephyr mild and balmy rainThe summer comes serenly on;Earth, air, and sun and skies combineTo promise all that’s kind and fair: –But thou, O human heart of mine,Be still, contain thyself, and bear.December days were brief and chill,The winds of March were wild and drear,And, nearing and receding still,Spring never would, we thought, be…
What we, when face to face we see
John tells us, doth not yet appear;Ah! did he tell what we are here!A mind for thoughts to pass into,A heart for loves to travel through,Five senses to detect things near,Is this the whole that we are here?Rules baffle instincts–instinct rules,Wise men are bad–and good are fools,Facts evil–wishes vain appear,We cannot go, why are we…
Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,
Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,E’en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,E’en in the people…
It fortifies my soul to know
That, howsoe’er I stray and range,Whate’er I do, Thou dost not change.I steadier step when I recallThat, if I slip, Thou dost not fall.