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Страница 182 - Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death.
Страница 36 - And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar ; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore. I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air ; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
Страница 165 - But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.
Страница 58 - Marriage is a desperate thing. The Frogs in JEsop were extreme wise ; they had a great mind to some Water, but they would not leap into the Well, because they could not get out again.
Страница 241 - And wait th' appointed hour, till they're relieved. Those only are the brave that keep their ground, And keep it to the last. To run away Is but a coward's trick: to run away From this world's ills, that at the very worst Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves By boldly venturing on a world unknown, And plunging headlong in the dark; 'tis mad: No frenzy half so desperate as this.
Страница 58 - Marriage is the best state for man in general ; and every man is a worse man, in proportion as he is unfit for the married state.
Страница 286 - 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?
Страница 77 - Truth is large : our aspiration Scarce embraces half we be. Shame, to stand in His creation, And doubt truth's sufficiency ! To think God's song unexcelling The poor tales of our own telling — When Pan is dead. What is true and just and honest, What is lovely, what is pure, All of praise that hath admonisht, All of virtue, shall endure ; These are themes for poets' uses, Stirring nobler than the Muses, Ere Pan was dead.