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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.

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
World
Dear
Saviour
Lord
Blades
Though
Utter
Poor
Gifts
Earth
Grass
Soul
Thanks
Nought
Every
Breathe
Dew
Like
God
Blade

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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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As the master so the valet.
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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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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 first and worst of all frauds is to cheat one's self.
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Let each man think himself an act of God, His mind a thought, his life a breath of God And let each try, by great thoughts and good deeds, To show the most of Heaven he hath in him.
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Music tells no truths.
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I cannot be content with less than heaven.
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And these are joys, like beauty, but skin deep.
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Look on the bee upon the wing 'mong flowers How brave, how bright his life! then mark, him hiv'd, Cramp'd, cringing in his self-built, social cell, Thus it is in the world-hive most where men Lie deep in cities as in drifts.
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There is no surer mark of the absence of the highest moral and intellectual qualities than a cold reception of excellence.
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What are ye orbs? The words of God? the Scriptures of the skies?
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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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Kindness is wisdom. There is none in life But needs it and may learn.
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Grief hallows hearts, even while it ages heads.
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Ah, nothing comes to us too soon but sorrow.
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America, thou half-brother of the world with something good and bad of every land.
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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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It matters not how long we live but how.
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Man is a military animal, glories in gunpowder, and loves parade.
Philip James Bailey