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I found God there, his visible power;

Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense

Of the power, an equal evidence

That His love. there too, was the nobler dower.

May Sixth.

What's poetry except a power that makes? And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest, Pressing them all into its service.

May Seventh.

ROBERT BROWNING, born 1812.

One who never turned his back but marched

breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break,

Never dreamed, though right were worsted,

wrong would triumph,

Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight bet

ter, Sleep to wake.

May Eighth.

And I shall behold Thee, face to face,
O God, and in Thy light retrace
How in all I loved here, still wast Thou!

May Ninth.

Then, stand there and hear

The birds' quiet singing, that tells us what life is, so clear!

The secret they sang to Ulysses when, ages

ago,

He heard and he knew this life's secret, I

hear and I know.

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In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.

'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,

The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its good red bell

Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

May Eleventh.

Dance yellows and whites and reds,
Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, heads

Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds!

May Twelfth.

Youth is the only time

To think and to decide on a great course. Manhood with action follows; but 'tis

dreary

To have to alter our whole life in age—
The time past, the strength gone.

May Thirteenth.

Feeling God loves us, and that all which

errs

Is but a dream which death will dissipate.

May Fourteenth.

We 're made so that we love

First when we see things painted, things we

have passed

Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see. And so they are better painted-better to

us

Which is the same thing-Art was given us

for that;

God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out.

May Fifteenth.

This world's no blot for us

Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good.

May Sixteenth.

Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air,

The clear dear breath of God that loveth

us,

Where small birds reel and winds take their

delight!

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