Arthur Hugh Clough
There Is No God, the Wicked Sayeth
“There is no God,” the wicked saith, “And truly it’s a blessing, For what He might have done with us It’s better only guessing.” “There is no God,” a youngster thinks, “or really, if
All Is Well
Whate’er you dream, with doubt possessed, Keep, keep it snug within your breast, And lay you down and take your rest; And when you wake, to work again, The wind it blows, the vessel
Where Lies The Land To Which The Ship Would Go
Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can
The Thread of Truth
Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there In small bright specks upon the visible side Of our strange being’s parti-coloured web. How rich the universe! ‘Tis a vein of ore Emerging now
With Whom is no Variableness, Neither Shadow of Turning
It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe’er I stray and range, Whate’er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if
In a Lecture Room
Away, haunt thou me not, Thou vain Philosophy! Little hast thou bestead, Save to perplex the head, And leave the spirit dead. Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, While from the secret treasure-depths below,
In A London Square
Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, East wind and frost are safely gone; With zephyr mild and balmy rain The summer comes serenly on; Earth, air, and sun and skies combine To promise
How In All Wonder
How in all wonder Columbus got over, That is a marvel to me, I protest, Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover, Frobisher, Dampier, Drake and the rest. Bad enough all the same, For
Qua Cursum Ventus
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
To Spend Uncounted Years Of Pain
To spend uncounted years of pain Again, again, and yet again In working out in heart and brain The problem of our being here, To gather facts from far and near Upon the mind
The Last Decalogue
Thou shalt have one God only;-who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency: Swear not at all; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none
In the Depths
It is not sweet content, be sure, That moves the nobler Muse to song, Yet when could truth come whole and pure From hearts that inly writhe with wrong? ‘T is not the calm
Ah! Yet Consider it Again!
“Old things need not be therefore true,” O brother men, nor yet the new; Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, And yet consider it again! The souls of now two thousand years Have
Through a Glass Darkly
What we, when face to face we see The Father of our souls, shall be, John tells us, doth not yet appear; Ah! did he tell what we are here! A mind for thoughts
Ye Flags of Picadilly
Ye flags of Piccadilly, Where I posted up and down, And wished myself so often Well away from you and town Are the people walking quietly And steady on their feet, Cabs and omnibuses