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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
True
Passing
Uplift
Form
Bear
Specks
Need
Forms
Knee
Needs
Sky
Crow
Men
Bears
Render
Upon
Uplifting
Eye
Passings
Bended
Faith
Knees
Speck

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Poetry is itself a thing of God He made his prophets poets and the more We feel of poesie do we become Like God in love and power,-under-makers.
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Man is a military animal, glories in gunpowder, and loves parade.
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The truth is perilous never to the true, Nor knowledge to the wise and to the fool, And to the false, error and truth alike, Error is worse than ignorance.
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The strongest passion which I have is honor.
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All are of the race of God, and have in themselves good.
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Prayer is the spirit speaking truth to Truth.
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The course of Nature seems a course of Death, And nothingness the whole substantial thing.
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Hell is more bearable than nothingness.
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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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Ah, nothing comes to us too soon but sorrow.
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Where doubt there truth is - 'tis her shadow.
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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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The sole equality on earth is death.
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Mind and night will meet, though in silence, like forbidden lovers.
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Blessings star forth forever but a curse is like a cloud, it passes.
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It is much less what we do than what we think, which fits us for the future.
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Evil then results from imperfection.
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Any heart turned Godward feels more joyIn one short hour of prayer, than e'er was raisedBy all the feasts of earth since its foundation.
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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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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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