ҡҹ˹ѧ

Դ繨ҡ - ¹Ԩó

辺Ԩó 觢ŷ

Ѻ - ٷ

շ辺

˹ 470 - All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist: Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power, Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
˹ 296 - How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy!
˹ 467 - Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
˹ 405 - There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
˹ 246 - I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
˹ 291 - Truth is within ourselves ; it takes no rise From outward things, whate'er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fulness ; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception which is truth.
˹ 279 - And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever : it may be a sound A tone of music summer's eve or spring A flower the wind the ocean which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound ; XXIV.
˹ 133 - 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 ? I have said enough ? Fest.
˹ 404 - No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
˹ 402 - Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

óҹء