A touch divine - And the scaled eyeball owns the mystic rod Visibly through his garden walketh God.
And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is - the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin.
Give me of Nelson only a touch.
For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the grey.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy.
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand
That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
Or, my scrofulous French novel On grey paper with blunt type Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial's gripe.
Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead. So free we seem, so fettered fast we are
There are those who believe something, and therefore will tolerate nothing and on the other hand, those who tolerate everything, because they believe nothing
I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay.
Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, Italy'.
She had A heart - how shall I say - too soon made glad, Too easily impressed.
This is a heart the Queen leant on.
The bee's kiss, now Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday.
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn Morning's at seven The hillside's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven - All's right with the world
Ignorance is not innocence but sin
Oh, never star Was lost here, but it rose afar Look East, where whole new thousands are In Vishnu-land what Avatar
Through such souls alone God stooping shows sufficient of His light For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise.
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn Morning's at seven The hill-side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven, All's right with the world
Grow old with me The best is yet to be, The last of life, For which, the first is made.
The grand perhaps We look on helplessly, there the old misgivings, crooked questions are.
Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.
A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's heaven for