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10,344 results · Page 16 of 431Play this collection ▷
09c. 1803 AD
O never rudely will I blame his faith In the might of stars and angels!... ... For the stricken heart of Love This visible nature, and this common world, Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import Lurks in the legend told my infant years Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn, For fable is Love’s world, his home, his birth-place: Delightedly dwells he ’mong fays and talismans, And spirits; and delightedly believes Divinities, being himself divine. The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and wat’ry depths; all these have vanished. They live no longer in the faith of reason! But still the heart doth need a language, still Doth the old instinct bring back the old names, And to yon starry world they now are gone, Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth With man as with their friend; and to the lover Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky Shoot influence down: and even at this day ’Tis Jupiter who brings whate’er is great, And Venus who brings everything that’s fair.
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12In print by 1921 AD
Who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in all England, that passeth all the rest in doing his office? It is the Devil. He is the most diligent preacher of all other, he is never out of his diocese, ye shall never find him unoccupied, ye shall never find him out of the way, call for him when you will; he is ever at home, the diligentest preacher in all the Realm; ye shall never find him idle, I warrant you.... He is no lordly loiterer, but a busy ploughman, so that among all the pack of them the Devil shall go for my money! Therefore, ye prelates, learn of the Devil to be diligent in doing of your office. If you will not learn of God nor good men: for shame learn of the Devil.
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15In print by 1921 AD
Is the yellow bird dead? Lay your dear little head Close, close to my heart, and weep, precious one, there, While your beautiful hair On my bosom lies light, like a sun-lighted cloud; No, you need not keep still, You may sob as you will; There is some little comfort in crying aloud. But the days they must come, When your grief will be dumb; Grown women like me must take care how they cry. You will learn by and by ’Tis a womanly art to hide pain out of sight, To look round with a smile, Though your heart aches the while And to keep back your tears till you’ve blown out the light.
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16In print by 1921 AD
I think sometimes how good it were had I some one by me to listen when I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any mortal in the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic understanding—nay, who would even generally be at one with me in my appreciation? Such harmony of intelligences is the rarest thing. All through life we long for it ... and, after all, we learn that the vision is illusory. To every man is it decreed: Thou shalt live alone.
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