If so there were a spirit, poised in peace Above all wind-gusts in the heavens high, And he might mark us mortals laugh or cry, According as the glooméd clouds increase Or suns beguile them into golden fleece, Methinks he would be like to smile to sigh (So placid he, so far within the sky, And knowing God's great love can never cease), That we the...Learn More

I saw a picture once by Angelo,— "Unfinished," said the critic, "done in youth,"— And that was all, no thought of praise, forsooth! He was informed, and doubtless it was so. And yet I let an hour of dreaming go The way of all time, touched to tears and ruth, Passion and joy, the prick of Conscience's tooth Before that careworn Christ's divine, soft...Learn More

He's not alone an artist weak and white, O'erbending scented paper toying there With languid fancies, fashioned deft and fair, Mere sops to time between the day and night. He is a poor torn soul who sees aright How far he fails of living out the rare Night-visions God vouchsafes along the air, Until the pain burns hot, beyond his might. The...Learn More

A wealth of silence, that is all. The air Lacks life and holds no hint of tender spring, Of flowers wholesome-blowing, birds a-wing, Of any creature much-alive and fair. Perhaps you guess a murmur here and there Among the tomes, each book a gossip thing, And each in her own tongue,—yet slumbering Seems more the bookish fashion everywhere. And...Learn More