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True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form, The bended knee, the eye uplift is all Which men need render all which God can bear. What to the faith are forms? A passing speck, A crow upon the sky.

Philip James Bailey

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Philip James Bailey
Age: 86 †
Born: 1816
Born: April 22
Died: 1902
Died: September 6
Author
Poet
Writer
P. J. Bailey
Men
Bears
Render
Upon
Uplifting
Eye
Passings
Bended
Faith
Knees
Speck
True
Passing
Uplift
Form
Bear
Specks
Need
Forms
Knee
Needs
Sky
Crow

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Remember that thy heart will shed its pleasures as thine eye its tears, and both leave loathsome furrows.
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It matters not how long we live but how.
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The sole equality on earth is death.
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Nature means Necessity.
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Youth might be wise we suffer less from pains than pleasures.
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Blessings star forth forever but a curse is like a cloud, it passes.
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Fine thoughts are wealth, for the right use of which Men are and ought to be accountable,-- If not to Thee, to those they influence.
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Life is as serious a thing as death.
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Imagination is the air of mind.
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We live in deeds, not years in thoughts, not breaths In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
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Where doubt there truth is - 'tis her shadow.
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Night comes, world-jewelled, . . . The stars rush forth in myriads as to wage War with the lines of Darkness and the moon, Pale ghost of Night, comes haunting the cold earth After the sun's red sea-death--quietless.
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Life's but a means unto an end, that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things--God.
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Man is one and he hath one great heart. It is thus we feel, with a gigantic throb athwart the sea, each other's rights and wrongs thus are we men.
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Dear Lord, our God and Saviour! for Thy gifts The world were poor in thanks, though every soul Were to do nought but breathe them, every blade Of grass, and every atomie of earth To utter it like dew.
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Leave the poor Some time for self-improvement. Let them not Be forced to grind the bones out of their arms For bread, but have some space to think and feel Like moral and immortal creatures.
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Necessity, like electricity, is in ourselves and all things, and no more without us than within us.
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All are of the race of God, and have in themselves good.
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The poet's pen is the true divining rod Which trembles towards the inner founts of feeling Bringing to light and use, else hid from all, The many sweet clear sources which we have of good and beauty in our own deep bosoms And marks the variations of all mind As does the needle.
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I cannot be content with less than heaven.
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