Frederick George Scott Quotes

Like some grey warder who, with mien sedate And smile of welcome, greets the throngs who pour Between the portals of a wide-thrown door, stands guardian at our water gate,
And watches from her battlemented state The great ships passing with their living store Of human myriads coming to our shore,
Expectant, joyous, resolute, elate.

Right hath the sweeter grace,
But Wrong the prettier face.

In lonely gorge and over hill and plain, I sowed the giant forests of the world;
The great earth like a human heart in pain Has quivered with the meteors I have hurled.

One doom waits all — art, speech, law, gods, and men, Forests and mountains, stars and shining sun, —
The hand that made them shall unmake again, I curse them and they wither one by one.Waste altars, tombs, dead cities where men trod, Shall roll through space upon the darkened globe,
Till I myself be overthrown, and God Cast off creation like an outworn robe.

It sleeps among the thousand hills Where no man ever trod,
And only nature's music fills The silences of God.

for me will be five hundred years of catching trains and two thousand years of remembering names.

So often have I met death face to face,
His eyes now wear the welcome of a friend's.

The great world's heart is aching, aching fiercely in the night,
And God alone can heal it, and God alone give light;
And the men to bear that message, and to speak the living word,
Are you and I, my brothers, and the millions that have heard.

The immortal spirit hath no bars To circumscribe its dwelling-place;
My soul hath pastured with the stars Upon the meadow-lands of space.

Is Sin, then, fair?' Nay, love, come now,
Put back the hair From his sunny brow;
See, here, blood-red
Across his head
A brand is set,
The word — 'Regret.'

O mighty Soul of England, rise in splendour Out of the wrack and turmoil of the night,
And as of old, compassionate and tender, Uphold the cause of justice and of right.

Give me splendour in my death —
Not this sickening dungeon breath,
Creeping down my blood like slime,
Till it wastes me in my prime.Give me back for one blind hour,
Half my former rage and power,
And some giant crisis send,
Meet to prove a hero's end.

Oh, curses on you hand and head, Like the rains in this wild weather
The guilt of blood is swift and dread,
Your sister's face is cold and dead,
Ye may not part whom God would wed And love hath knit together.

Clay was I; the potter Thou
With Thy thumb-nail smooth'dst my brow,
Rolltdst the spittle-moistened sands
Into limbs between Thy hands.
[...]
Strong Thou mad'st me, till at length
All my weakness was my strength;
Tortured am I, blind and wrecked,
For a faulty architect.

Growing to full manhood now,
With the care-lines on our brow,
We, the youngest of the nations, With no childish lamentations,
Weep, as only strong men weep,
For the noble hearts that sleep, Pillowed where they fought and bled,
The loved and lost, our glorious dead.