Robert Bridges

Seeking unceasingly for the First Cause of All, in question for what special purpose he was made, Man, in the unsearchable darkness, knoweth one thing: that as he is, so was he made; and if the Essence and characteristic faculty of …

The name of happiness is but a wider term for the unalloy'd conditions of the Pleasur of Life, attendant on all function, and not to be deny'd to th' soul, unless forsooth in our thought of nature spiritual is by definition unnatural.

I know that if odour were visible as colour is, I'd see the summer garden aureoled in rainbow clouds.

Repudiation of pleasur is a reason'd folly of imperfection. Ther is no motiv can rebate or decompose the intrinsic joy of activ life, whereon all function whatsoever in man is based.

Beauty, the eternal Spouse of the Wisdom of God and Angel of his Presence thru' all creation.

Beauty is the highest of all these occult influences, the quality of appearances that thru' the sense wakeneth spiritual emotion in the mind of man.

Nature hav no music; nor would ther be for thee any better melody in the April woods at dawn than what an old stone-deaf labourer, lying awake o'night in his comfortless attic, might perchance be aware of, when the rats run amok in his …

Man's Reason is in such deep insolvency to sense, that tho' she guide his highest flight heav'nward, and teach him dignity morals manners and human comfort, she can delicatly and dangerously bedizen the rioting joys that fringe the sad …

But I can tell — let truth be told — That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.

I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet unmemoried scents: A honeymoon delight, A joy of love at sight,

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Were I a cloud I'd gather My skirts up in the air, And fly I well know whither, And rest I well know where.

And now impatiently despairest, see How nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attired Splended for others' eyes if not for thee: Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled: If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead.

The evening darkens over After a day so bright, The windcapt waves discover That wild will be the night.

I live on hope and that I think do all Who come into this world.

Scatter the clouds that hide The face of heaven, and show Where sweet peace doth abide, Where Truth and Beauty grow.

Behind the western bars The shrouded day retreats, And unperceived the stars Steal to their sovran seats. And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more;

I will not let thee go. I hold thee by too many bands: Thou sayest farewell, and lo! I have thee by the hands, And will not let thee go.

As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.

When Death to either shall come— I pray it be first to me.

The broad cloud-driving moon in the clear sky Lifts o’er the firs her shining shield, And in her tranquil light Sleep falls on forest and field. See! sleep hath fallen: the trees are asleep: The night is come. The land is wrapt in sleep.

The storm is over, the land hushes to rest: The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone, Is fallen back in the west.

Awake! the land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree.