Tides

“I am like thee, O, Night, dark and naked; I walk on the flaming
path which is above my day-dreams, and whenever my foot touches
earth a giant oak tree comes forth.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still lookest
backward to see how large a foot-print thou leavest on the sand.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, silent and deep; and in the heart of
my loneliness lies a Goddess in child-bed; and in him who is being
born Heaven touches Hell.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou shudderest yet
before pain, and the song of the abyss terrifies thee.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, wild and terrible; for my ears are crowded
with cries of conquered nations and sighs for forgotten lands.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still takest thy
little-self for a comrade, and with thy monster-self thou canst
not be friend.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, cruel and awful; for my bosom is lit
by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet with blood of slain
warriors.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman; for the desire for a
sister-spirit is yet upon thee, and thou has not become alone unto
thyself.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, joyous and glad; for he who dwells in
my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and she who follows me is
sinning mirthfully.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thy soul is wrapped in
the veil of seven folds and thou holdest not thy heart in thine
hand.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, patient and passionate; for in my breast
a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses.”

“Yea, Madman, art thou like me? Art thou like me? And canst thou
ride the tempest as a steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword?”

“Like thee, O, Night, like thee, mighty and high, and my throne is
built upon heaps of fallen Gods; and before me too pass the days
to kiss the hem of my garment but never to gaze at my face.”

“Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart? And dost thou think
my untamed thoughts and speak my vast language?”

“Yea, we are twin brothers, O, Night; for thou revealest space and
I reveal my soul.”

To Mary — — 1.

Oui, pour jamais
Chassons l’image
De la volage
Que j’adorais. PARNY. Matilda, farewell! Fate has doom’d us to part,
But the prospect occasions no pang to my heart;
No longer is love with my reason at strife,
Though once thou wert dearer, far dearer than life.

Love, thou are absolute sole lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,
We’ll now appeal to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown;
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud into the face of death

Animula, vagula, blandula. Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me’s a secret yet.

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim"

"I am no longer good through deliberate intent, but by long habit have reached a point where I am not only able to do right, but am unable to do anything but what is right."
(Seneca, Letters 120.10) Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;

What thing unto mine ear
Wouldst thou convey,—what secret thing,
O wandering water ever whispering?
Surely thy speech shall be of her.
Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer,
What message dost thou bring?

Say, hath not Love leaned low