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Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, Thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; Our wills are ours, to make them Thine.
Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be : They are but broken lights of Thee, And Thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith: we cannot know;
Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
We are fools and slight;
We mock Thee when we do not fear :
But help Thy foolish ones to bear ;
Help Thy vain worlds to bear Thy light.
Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ;
For merit lives from man to man,
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I find him worthier to be loved.
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in Thy wisdom make me wise.
I HELD it truth, with him who sings
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro' time to catch The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, Let darkness keep her raven gloss ;
Ah! sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground;
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast:
Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn.'
OLD Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head; Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men.
O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Nor branding summer suns avail
And gazing on the sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood, And grow incorporate into thee.