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The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May.

Robert Bridges

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Robert Bridges
Age: 85 †
Born: 1844
Born: October 23
Died: 1930
Died: April 21
Poet
Writer
Kent
England
Robert Seymour Bridges
Robert S. Bridges
Hill
Valleys
Hills
Blotted
Pleasant
Sighing
Lying
Pines
May
Mist
Valley
Chill

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Man's Reason is in such deep insolvency to sense,that tho' she guide his highest flight heav'nward, and teach himdignity morals manners and human comfort,she can delicatly and dangerously bedizenthe rioting joys that fringe the sad pathways of Hell.
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Beauty is the highest of all these occult influences, the quality of appearances that thru' the sense wakeneth spiritual emotion in the mind of man.
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Our stability is but balance, and conduct lies In masterful administration of the unforseen.
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When first we met we did not guess that Love would prove so hard a master.
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O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.
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Nature hav no music nor would ther be for theeany better melody in the April woods at dawnthan what an old stone-deaf labourer, lying awakeo'night in his comfortless attic, might perchancebe aware of, when the rats run amok in his thatch?
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I live in hope and that I think do all Who come into this world.
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My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night.
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So sweet love seemed that April morn, when first we kissed beside the thorn, so strangely sweet, it was not strange we thought that love could never change.
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Since to be loved endures, To love is wise.
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I have loved flowers that fade,Within whose magic tentsRich hues have marriage madeWith sweet unmemoried scents:A honeymoon delight,A joy of love at sight,That ages in an hourMy song be like a flower!
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Scatter the clouds that hide The face of heaven, and show Where sweet peace doth abide, Where Truth and Beauty grow.
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I love all beauteous things, I seek and adore them
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Were I a cloud I'd gather My skirts up in the air, And fly I well know whither, And rest I well know where.
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The south-wind strengthens to a gale, / Across the moon the clouds fly fast, / The house is smitten as with a flail, / The chimney shudders to the blast.
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When Death to either shall come - I pray it be first to me.
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Beauty being the best of all we know sums up the unsearchable and secret aims of nature.
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Spring goeth all in white, / Crowned with milk-white may: / In fleecy flocks of light / O'er heaven the white clouds stray.
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Beauty, the eternal Spouse of the Wisdom of God and Angel of his Presence thru' all creation.
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Poetry's magic lies in the imagery which satifies even without interpretation..it is accepted as easily as it was created.
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