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Best Famous Arthur Hugh Clough Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Arthur Hugh Clough poems. This is a select list of the best famous Arthur Hugh Clough poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Arthur Hugh Clough poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Arthur Hugh Clough poems.

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Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

All Is Well

 Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed,
Keep, keep it snug within your breast,
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, and not for nought, The wind it blows, the ship it goes, Though where and whither, no one knows.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

The Last Decalogue

 Thou shalt have one God only;—who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honour thy parents; that is, all
From whom advancement may befall:
Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it:
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When 'tis so lucrative to cheat:
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet, but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

In a Lecture Room

 Away, haunt thou me not,
Thou vain Philosophy!
Little hast thou bestead,
Save to perplex the head,
And leave the spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, While from the secret treasure-depths below, Fed by the skyey shower, And clouds that sink and rest on hilltops high, Wisdom at once, and Power, Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly? Why labor at the dull mechanic oar, When the fresh breeze is blowing, And the strong current flowing, Right onward to the Eternal Shore?

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Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

In A London Square

 Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane,
East wind and frost are safely gone;
With zephyr mild and balmy rain
The summer comes serenly on;
Earth, air, and sun and skies combine
To 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 here.
The leaves that burst, the suns that shine, Had, not the less, their certain date:— And thou, O human heart of mine, Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

With Whom is no Variableness Neither Shadow of Turning

 It fortifies my soul to know
That, though I perish, Truth is so:
That, howsoe'er I stray and range,
Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.
I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

Through a Glass Darkly

 What we, when face to face we see
The Father of our souls, shall be,
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 here?

O may we for assurance's sake,
Some arbitrary judgement take,
And wilfully pronounce it clear,
For this or that 'tis we are here?

Or is it right, and will it do,
To pace the sad confusion through,
And say:--It doth not yet appear,
What we shall be, what we are here?

Ah yet, when all is thought and said,
The heart still overrules the head;
Still what we hope we must believe,
And what is given us receive;

Must still believe, for still we hope
That in a world of larger scope,
What here is faithfully begun
Will be completed, not undone.
My child, we still must think, when we That ampler life together see, Some true result will yet appear Of what we are, together, here.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

The Thread of Truth

 Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there
In small bright specks upon the visible side
Of our strange being's parti-coloured web.
How rich the universe! 'Tis a vein of ore Emerging now and then on Earth's rude breast, But flowing full below.
Like islands set At distant intervals on Ocean's face, We see it on our course; but in the depths The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps Its faithful way, invisible but sure.
Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men Pass by so many marks, so little heeding?

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

Qua Cursum Ventus

 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so—but why the tale reveal
Of those, whom year by year unchanged,
Brief absence joined anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered— 
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides— 
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliset parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare,— O bounding breeze, O rushing seas! At last, at last, unite them there!

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

There Is No God the Wicked Sayeth

 "There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing.
" "There is no God," a youngster thinks, "or really, if there may be, He surely did not mean a man Always to be a baby.
" "There is no God, or if there is," The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny If He should take it ill in me To make a little money.
" "Whether there be," the rich man says, "It matters very little, For I and mine, thank somebody, Are not in want of victual.
" Some others, also, to themselves, Who scarce so much as doubt it, Think there is none, when they are well, And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath The shadow of the steeple; The parson and the parson's wife, And mostly married people; Youths green and happy in first love, So thankful for illusion; And men caught out in what the world Calls guilt, in first confusion; And almost everyone when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like Him.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

In the Depths

 It is not sweet content, be sure,
That moves the nobler Muse to song,
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.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

Ye Flags of Picadilly

 Ye flags of Piccadilly,
Where I posted up and down,
And wished myself so often
Well away from you and town--

Are the people walking quietly
And steady on their feet,
Cabs and omnibuses plying
Just as usual in the street?

Do the houses look as upright
As of old they used to be,
And does nothing seem affected
By the pitching of the sea?

Through the Green Park iron railings
Do the quick pedestrians pass?
Are the little children playing
Round the plane-tree in the grass?

This squally wild northwester
With which our vessel fights,
Does it merely serve with you to
Carry up some paper kites?

Ye flags of Piccadilly,
Which I hated so, I vow
I could wish with all my heart
You were underneath me now!

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

To Spend Uncounted Years Of Pain

 To spend uncounted years of pain
Again, again, and yet again
In working out in heart and brain
The 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
Until one's latest breath to fear
The premature result to draw - 
Is this the object, end, and law,
And purpose of our being here?

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

Ah! Yet Consider it Again!

 "Old things need not be therefore true,"
O brother men, nor yet the new;
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain,
And yet consider it again!

The souls of now two thousand years
Have laid up here their toils and tears,
And all the earnings of their pain,--
Ah, yet consider it again!

We! what do we see? each a space
Of some few yards before his face;
Does that the whole wide plan explain?
Ah, yet consider it again!

Alas! the great world goes its way,
And takes its truth from each new day;
They do not quit, nor can retain,
Far less consider it again.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

Across the Sea Along the Shore

 Across the sea, along the shore,
In numbers more and ever more,
From lonely hut and busy town,
The valley through, the mountain down,
What was it ye went out to see,
Ye silly folk Galilee?
The reed that in the wind doth shake?
The weed that washes in the lake?
The reeds that waver, the weeds that float?
A young man preaching in a boat.
What was it ye went out to hear By sea and land from far and near? A teacher? Rather seek the feet Of those who sit in Moses' seat.
Go humbly seek, and bow to them, Far off in great Jerusalem.
From them that in her courts ye saw, Her perfect doctors of the law, What is it came ye here to note? A young man preaching in a boat.
A prophet! Boys and women weak! Declare, or cease to rave; Whence is it he hath learned to speak? Say, who his doctrine gave? A prophet? Prophet wherefore he Of all in Israel tribes? He teacheth with authority, And not as do the Scribes.

Written by Arthur Hugh Clough |

How In All Wonder...

 How in all wonder Columbus got over,
That is a marvel to me, I protest,
Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover,
Frobisher, Dampier, Drake and the rest.
Bad enough all the same, For them that after came, But, in great Heaven's name, How he should ever think That on the other brink Of this huge waste terra firma should be, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
How a man ever should hope to get thither, E'e'n if he knew of there being another side; But to suppose he should come any whither, Sailing right on into chaos untried, Across the whole ocean, In spite of the motion, To stick to the notion That in some nook or bend Of a sea without end He should find North and South Amerikee, Was a pure madness as it seems to me.
What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, Judged that the earth like an orange was round, None of them ever said, 'Come along, follow, Sail to the West, and the East will be found.
' Many a day before Ever they'd touched the shore Of the San Salvador, Sadder and wiser men They'd have turned back again; And that he did not, but did cross the sea, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
And that he crossed and that we cross the sea Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.