Robert Williams Buchanan Quotes

Even on the white English crags A few strong spirits, in a race that binds Its body in chains and calls them Liberty, And calls each fresh link Progress, stood erect With faces pale that hunger'd to the light.

I, who loved and knew you, In the city that slew you, Still hunger on, and thirst, and climb, proud-hearted and alone: Serpent-fears enfold me, Syren-visions hold me, And, like a wave, I gather strength, and gathering strength, I moan; Yea, the pale moon beckons, Still I follow, aching, And gather strength, only to make a louder moan, in breaking!

Along the melting shores of earth An emerald flame there ran, Forest and field grew bright, and mirth Gladdened the flocks of man. Then glory grew on earth and heaven, Full glory of full day! Then the bright rainbow's colours seven On every iceberg lay! In Balder's hand Christ placed His own,
And it was golden weather, And on that berg as on a throne The Brethren stood together! And countless voices far and wide Sang sweet beneath the sky — "All that is beautiful shall abide, All that is base shall die.".

O Balder, he who fashion'd us, And bade us live and move, Shall weave for Death's sad heavenly hair Immortal flowers of love. "Ah! never fail'd my servant Death, Whene'er I named his name,— But at my bidding he hath flown As swift as frost or flame. "Yea, as a sleuth-hound tracks a man, And finds his form, and springs, So hath he hunted down the gods As well as human things! "Yet only thro' the strength of Death A god shall fall or rise — A thousand lie on the cold snows, Stone still, with marble eyes. "But whosoe'er shall conquer Death, Tho' mortal man he be, Shall in his season rise again, And live, with thee, and me! "And whosoe'er loves mortals most Shall conquer Death the best, Yea, whosoe'er grows beautiful Shall grow divinely blest." The white Christ raised his shining face To that still bright'ning sky. "Only the beautiful shall abide, Only the base shall die!"

I ask no more from mortals
Than your beautiful face implies,— The beauty the artist beholding Interprets and sanctifies. Who says that men have fallen, That life is wretched and rough? I say, the world is lovely, And that loveliness is enough. So my doubting days are ended,
And the labour of life seems clear; And life hums deeply around me,
Just like the murmur here, And quickens the sense of living, And shapes me for peace and storm,— And dims my eyes with gladness When it glides into colour and form!

I saw the starry Tree
Eternity
Put forth the blossom Time.

Believing hath a core of unbelieving.

Their hearts and sentiments were free, their appetites were hearty.

Lo, the book I hold here, In the city cold here ! I hold it with a gentle hand and love it as I may; Lo, the weary moments! Lo, the icy comments! And lo, false Fortune's knife of gold swift-lifted up to slay! Has the strife no ending? Has the song no meaning? Linger I, idle as of old, while men are reaping or gleaning?

Upward my face I turn to you, I long for you, I yearn to you, The spectral vision trances me to utt'rance wild and weak; It is not that I mourn you, To mourn you were to scorn you, For you are one step nearer to the beauty singers seek. But I want, and cannot see you, I seek and cannot find you, And, see! I touch the book of songs you tenderly left behind you!

Full of a sweet indifference.

Tho' the world could turn from you, This, at least, I learn from you: Beauty and Truth, tho' never found, are worthy to be sought, The singer, upward-springing, Is grander than his singing, And tranquil self-sufficing joy illumes the dark of thought. This, at least, you teach me, In a revelation: That gods still snatch, as worthy death, the soul in its aspiration.