The Character
I marvel how
Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and
vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease
,
Would be rational
peace--a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
There's
virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.
This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.
By
William Wordsworth
Nothing
Gold Can Stay
By Robert Frost
Nature's
first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Fireflies
in the Garden By Robert Frost
Here
come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating
flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never
really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only,
of course, they can't sustain the part.
Devotion By Robert Frost
The heart can
think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean--
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.
