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| Tomorrow | Light tomorrow with today. | | Trees | The place is all awave with trees, Limes, myrtles, purple-beaded, Acacias having drunk the lees Of the night-dew, fain headed, And wan, grey olive-woods, which seem The fittest foliage for a dream. | | Trials | Pray, pray, thou who also weepest,-- And the drops will slacken so, Weep, weep--and the watch thou keepest, With a quicker count will go. Think,--the shadow on the dial For the nature most undone, Marks the passing of the trial, Proves the presence of the sun. | | Unhappiness | Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done. | | Violets | Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal. | | Wishes | Every wish Is like a prayer--with God. | | Women | You forget too much That every creature, female as the male, Stands single in responsible act and thought As also in birth and death. | | Women | A worthless woman! mere cold clay As all false things are! but so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware, I would not play her larcenous tricks To have her looks! | | Wooing | "Yes," I answered you last night, "No," this morning, sir, I say, Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. | | Work | By the way, The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out sight, Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, To put on when you're weary--or a stool To tumble over and vex you . . . curse that stool! Or else at best, a cushion where you lean And sleep, and dream of something we are not, But would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this . . . that, after all, we are paid The worth of our work, perhaps. | | Work | Get leave to work In this world,--'tis the best you get at all. | | Work | Let no one till his death Be called unhappy. Measure not the work Until the day's out and the labour done. | | Work | Free men freely work, Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease. | | World | In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world, Where all the heaviest wrongs get uppermost. | | World | He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life. | | Previous - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Page 5 | |
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