Written by
Henry David Thoreau |
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers."
Let such pure hate still underprop
Our love, that we may be
Each other's conscience,
And have our sympathy
Mainly from thence.
We'll one another treat like gods,
And all the faith we have
In virtue and in truth, bestow
On either, and suspicion leave
To gods below.
Two solitary stars--
Unmeasured systems far
Between us roll;
But by our conscious light we are
Determined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?--
Love can afford to wait;
For it no hour's too late
That witnesseth one duty's end,
Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use,
More than the tints of flowers;
Only the independent guest
Frequents its bowers,
Inherits its bequest.
No speech, though kind, has it;
But kinder silence doles
Unto its mates;
By night consoles,
By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue?
What hearest ear of ear?
By the decrees of fate
From year to year,
Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns;
No trivial bridge of words,
Or arch of boldest span,
Can leap the moat that girds
The sincere man.
No show of bolts and bars
Can keep the foeman out,
Or 'scape his secret mine,
Who entered with the doubt
That drew the line.
No warder at the gate
Can let the friendly in;
But, like the sun, o'er all
He will the castle win,
And shine along the wall.
There's nothing in the world I know
That can escape from love,
For every depth it goes below,
And every height above.
It waits, as waits the sky,
Until the clouds go by,
Yet shines serenely on
With an eternal day,
Alike when they are gone,
And when they stay.
Implacable is Love--
Foes may be bought or teased
From their hostile intent,
But he goes unappeased
Who is on kindness bent.
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Written by
William Cowper |
(Mark, xi.17)
Thy mansion is the Christian's heart,
O Lord, Thy dwelling place secure!
Bid the unruly throng depart,
And leave the consecrated door.
Devoted as it is to Thee,
A thievish swarm frequents the place,
They steal away my hopes from me,
And rob my Saviour of His praise.
There, too, a sharp designing trade
Sin, Satan, and the World maintain;
Nor cease to press me, and persuade
To part with ease, and purchase pain.
I know them, and I hate their din;
And weary of the bustling crowd;
But while their voice is heard within,
I cannot serve Thee as I would.
Oh! for the joy thy presence gives,
What peace shall reign when Thou art there;
Thy presence makes this den of thieves
A calm delightful house of prayer.
And if Thou make Thy temple shine,
Yet self-abased, will I adore;
The gold and silver are not mine;
I give Thee waht was Thine before.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXIX. Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbe. HE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTS. Gay, joyous blooms, and herbage glad with showers,O'er which my pensive fair is wont to stray!Thou plain, that listest her melodious lay,As her fair feet imprint thy waste of flowers!Ye shrubs so trim; ye green, unfolding bowers;Ye violets clad in amorous, pale array;[Pg 155]Thou shadowy grove, gilded by beauty's ray,Whose top made proud majestically towers!O pleasant country! O translucent stream,Bathing her lovely face, her eyes so clear,And catching of their living light the beam!I envy ye her actions chaste and dear:No rock shall stud thy waters, but shall learnHenceforth with passion strong as mine to burn. Nott. O bright and happy flowers and herbage blest,On which my lady treads!—O favour'd plain,That hears her accents sweet, and can retainThe traces by her fairy steps impress'd!—Pure shrubs, with tender verdure newly dress'd,—Pale amorous violets,—leafy woods, whose reignThy sun's bright rays transpierce, and thus sustainYour lofty stature, and umbrageous crest;—O thou, fair country, and thou, crystal stream,Which bathes her countenance and sparkling eyes,Stealing fresh lustre from their living beam;How do I envy thee these precious ties!Thy rocky shores will soon be taught to gleamWith the same flame that burns in all my sighs. Wrottesley.
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Written by
Omar Khayyam |
Each heart that God illumines with the light of
love, as it frequents the mosque or synagogue, inscribes
its name upon the book of love, and is set free from
fear of Hell while it awaits the joys of Paradise.
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