University of Virginia Library

[Sweetheart and sweetheart, husband and wife]

Sweetheart and sweetheart, husband and wife,
Say to each other “My Soul! my Life!”
With love's best unanimity.
Each mortal to mortal hath much to give:
Each soul by its very self must live
At the centre of infinity.

[The figures of Heroes by history outlined]

The figures of Heroes by history outlined
Can only take colour and life from your mind.

[He who worships Success]

[Honour and Fortune never sought thee out]

Honour and Fortune never sought thee out;
'Tis not their way;
And had'st thou left thy home in search of these,
Thy shady nook, and miss'd them, thou no doubt
Would'st rue it dearly: nay,
If thou had'st found them. Is thy mind at ease?
Thy little house wholesome and seemly? Rest
Contented there, and welcome as a guest
Each coming Day.

[Each thinks himself exceptional]

Each thinks himself exceptional:
Ridiculous!—and yet sublime.
The individual may be small,
Yet individuality's the prime
Glory and hope of us poor Sons of Time.

[The imperial essence, the transcendent dower]

The imperial essence, the transcendent dower
Of all good moments, is the Sense of Power;
The joy of all enjoyments, high or mean,
Active or passive, stormy or serene.
The Sense of Power is freedom, warmth, and light;
The Sense of Weakness, gloom and chains and blight;
The Sense of Power is life's immortal breath;
The Sense of Weakness is the touch of death.

[“How can it surely be known]

“How can it surely be known
What is the right and the true?”
Give us, if any answer, your own—
What life hath whisper'd to you.

[The Age of Suicide draws near]

The Age of Suicide draws near,
Its outskirts are already here;
Life is no longer sweet, I fear;
Not healthy, therefore, that is clear.
Are you too coming, Doctor? Shall you
Teach us to set higher value
On the solar day and year?
Just by some few simple rules,
Which we put aside like fools,
Cleanse our blood and purge our sight,
And show us how to step aright?

[Religion dead]

Religion dead,
Enthusiasm fled,
Poetry finally knock'd on head
With materialistic bludgeon,
How will this world of ours look then?
And Time, that old curmudgeon,
What will he do with my little boy,
Bud of hope and blossom of joy?
Can he deal with him in dudgeon?
Millions of Babes that must be men!
At the end of your three-score years and ten
What sort of a world will ye leave behind?
What sort of a world will your grandsons find?

[The weak, all-powerful force, now in our hand]

The weak, all-powerful force, now in our hand;
Earth's future lords, the Children of the Land.

[The Children of the Land]

The Children of the Land
Are given into thy hand,
O wish'd-for future King:
Gently, boldly, take them;
All they are fit for, make them;
Teach them to work, pray, sing.