Wisdom.
There are some things in life are very poor,
And some unpriceable: our wisdom is
To know our rubbish and our riches here;
To, as it were, sort out ourselves, and blow
The world's dust off the jewels that we have,
Revealing them.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Love #2.
The small, white, soft hand of a maid can shoot
A bolt will bar a giant's way; and, oh!
The dreamy Love is a unique magician,
That, tender as the maiden's lily hand,
Is yet as sinewy retentive as
The bolt that bars the giant's way.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Comic Preacher.
'What proof have you the good man is a fool,
Or that the folly does not rather lie
With those who mock him?'
'Common sense, sir, must
Have some weight even in religious things;
And when a prophet turns comedian,
God's out of favour.'
poem by Robert Crawford
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Madrigal #1.
What needs it, then, we stand so long a-gazing,
And do not our lips mingle,
Since our hearts, so long single,
Have married as if in a dream amazing?
Our lips in such a joy should follow suit,
And on each other feed as on Love's fruit.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Passion Of Love's Power.
Touch me, from out your breast of love,
With such white hands that be
As beautiful as a dream of
Your lips' virginity;
Or else look pity on my hope,
And that sweet sorrow shall
With the pang of departure cope,
And make amends for all.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Entranced.
A trance upon my spirit fell;
It seemed as I were hurled
Through aeons like an atom dark
Beyond the flaming world:
From void to void without a breath,
As in a weird unknown
Where Death had done his oldest work,
And God himself was gone!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Beauty.
Her beauty is the bourne thought cannot pass;
And the angel of the heart's intelligence,
Young Love, might deem that boundary infinite,
So he within the glamour of her eyes,
As in some ether too thin to be weighed,
Might breathe for ever.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Impetuosity.
His over-hot desire itself defeats,
And where mere prudence had attained, he fails
For lack of self-retention; as on ice
A ravening wolf, when his prey swerves, o'ershoots
The mark, and, floundering in his fury, slides
On the smooth floor.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Insect.
We do not grasp ourselves, but still drift on
As aimless as a mote in the warm air,
Whose senses take the sweetness of the time,
And in a moment let existence go,
Its tiny death-squeak an indefinite thing
Recorded in the general ear of God.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Love's Vision.
I am one with thee, and thou
Art a vision of me now,
Which love, and not life, has made;
It with life, then, may not fade,
But like lightning, swiftly gone,
Breathe a more immortal tone
Than the dull light of the day
That is slow to pass away.
poem by Robert Crawford
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