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What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind!-Alas! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.
Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough, Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now, Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment, Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?
Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive God-the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve, ""T is but decent to profess oneself beneath her: "Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!"
Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes; Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves, When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure, And the earth keeps up her terrible composure,
Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,
What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,
So much for the culprit. Who 's the martyred man? Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can! He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven, Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!
All or nothing, stake it! Trusts he God or no?
Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives, Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.
But you must not end my friend ere you begin him; Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.
Once more-Will the wronger, at this last of all,
TAKE the cloak from his face, and at first
How he lies in his rights of a man!
And, absorbed in the new life he leads,
He recks not, he heeds
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike
And are lost in the solemn and strange
Ha, what avails death to erase
I would we were boys as of old
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn
I stand here now, he lies in his placé:
A PICTURE AT FANO.
DEAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?
If this was ever granted, I would rest
My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,
Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
(Alfred, dear friend!)—that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each
Pressed gently, with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach.
We were at Fano, and three times we went
-My angel with me too: and since I care