Arthur Hugh Clough

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, And how one ought never to think of one's self, And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking— My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking How pleasant it is to have …

I drive through the streets, and I care not a d-mn; The people they stare, and they ask who I am; And if I should chance to run over a cad, I can pay for the damage if ever so bad.

This world is bad enough, may-be; We do not comprehend it; But in one fact can all agree God won't, and we can't mend it.

Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah, What else is like the gondola?

I sit at my table en grand seigneur, And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor; Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good living, But also the pleasure of now and then giving. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant …

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking, How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! How pleasant it is to have money.

Trust me, I’ve read your German sage To far more purpose e’er than you did; You find it in his wisest page, Whom God deludes is well deluded.

But country folks who live beneath The shadow of the steeple; The parson and the parson’s wife, And mostly married people;Youths green and happy in first love, So thankful for illusion; And men caught out in what the world

Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:

Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.

But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance, Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession?

I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious, Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process; We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of …

Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female? Really, who knows? ... Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady— Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation.

The horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people.

Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.

They are married and gone to New Zealand.

There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who arrays our battalions; Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in our stations.

A world where nothing is had for nothing.

Women are weak, as you say, and love of all things to be passive, Passive, patient, receptive, yea, even of wrong and misdoing, Even to force and misdoing with joy and victorious feeling Patient, passive, receptive; for that is the …

Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought in the market; Knowledge needful for all, yet cannot be had for the asking.

... In a blue cotton print tucked up over striped linsey-woolsey, Barefoot, barelegged, he beheld her, with arms bare up to the elbows, Bending with fork in her hand in a garden uprooting potatoes

... O musical chaff of old Athens, Dishes, and fishes, bird, beast, and sesquipedalian black-guard!

Good, too, Logic, of course; in itself, but not in fine weather.