Bigotry.
How often our beliefs more than our doubts
Ruin and mar us here, clog the soul's feet,
And shackle the heart's best impulses so,
That for Heaven's love we do inhuman things,
And with a (Unclear quietude
Hear babes moan in the everlasting fire!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Death.
The natural death we each night undergo
Should teach us that our passing's but a sleep,
Which we beyond the body's shadow may,
Even as a garment of the day we doff,
Put off for ever, being then no more
Nor less, indeed, than we have been before.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Death.
The natural death we each night undergo
Should teach us that our passing's but a sleep,
Which we beyond the body's shadow may,
Even as a garment of the day we doff,
Put off for ever, being then no more
Nor less, indeed, than we have been before.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Death.
The natural death we each night undergo
Should teach us that our passing's but a sleep,
Which we beyond the body's shadow may,
Even as a garment of the day we doff,
Put off for ever, being then no more
Nor less, indeed, than we have been before.
poem by Robert Crawford
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A Father's Fear.
The little feet that run to me,
The little hands that strive
To touch me at the heart, and find
The heart in me alive:
Oh God! if hands and feet should fail,
If Death his mist should fling
Between my heart and the touch of
The little living thing!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Thought's Austerity.
Alas! in this bare life thought is austere,
And only when the dream-clouds cover us
And we breathe phantasy's sweet airs, we take
Contentment, though 'tis visionary, on,
And find some miracle of beauty still
To charm us from the savour of ourselves.
poem by Robert Crawford
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On Marriage.
Whom Love has joined no man may put asunder,
And he has never joined those who can part:
Marriage is this, no more, howe'er priests moan;
The rest is words, mere words, and custom's vapour
The heart will brush aside as easily
As fancy paints a picture.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Finer Spirit.
'Tis when the wits I have are gone
The finer powers appear;
The spirit of phantasy leads me on,
And gives my heart her cheer.
The all-licensed fool the mad king had
Was but the light of Lear,
His soul's familiar, motley clad,
That told him no lies here.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Business And Pleasure.
He'll have his all; and though his heart is great,
Ay, prodigal of kindness, yet is he
A very Shylock in his bargaining.
Those soft, mild eyes of his grow hard as iron
To gauge the too, too little or too much,
When commerce puts his temper to the touch.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Women.
Alas! we women are the fools of you:
You mould us and you mar us — we are yours,
And ever have been since the birth of love,
Flowers cherished for a while, soon to be cast
As weeds away; and yet as weeds in the mire
Our fading hues breathe to the last of you.
poem by Robert Crawford
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