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" "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.
Robert Williams Buchanan (August 18, 1841 – June 10, 1901) was a Scottish poet, novelist and dramatist.
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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!
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?