To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
Beloved!While I am I, and you are you,So long as the world contains us both,Me the loving and you the lothWhile the one eludes, must the other pursue.My life is a fault at last, I fear:It seems too much like a fate, indeed!Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.But what if I fail…
Grand rough old Martin LutherBloomed fables—flowers on furze,The better the uncouther:Do roses stick like burrs?II.A beggar asked an almsOne day at an abbey-door,Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,The abbot replied, “We’re poor!III.“Poor, who had plenty once,“When gifts fell thick as rain:“But they give us nought, for the nonce,“And how should we give again?”IV.Then the beggar,…
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair: such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroudWhich breaks to dust when once unrolled;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to…
By famous Hanover city;The river Weser, deep and wide,Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.II.Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of…
As one at first believes?Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!II.And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns grey.III.To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I…
‘Twixt page and uncut page, these words I read –Some six or seven at most – and learned therebyThat you, Fitzgerald, whom by ear and eyeShe never knew, ‘thanked God my wife was dead.’Aye, dead! and were yourself alive, good Fitz,How to return you thanks would task my wits.Kicking you seems the common lot of…
