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In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,But westward, look, the land is bright.
Arthur Hugh Clough -
My wind is turned to bitter north,That was so soft a south before;My sky, that shone so sunny bright,With foggy gloom is clouded o’erMy gay green leaves are yellow-black,Upon the dank autumnal floor;For love, departed once, comes backNo more again, no more.
Arthur Hugh Clough
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’Tis possible, young sir, that some excessMars youthful judgment and old men’s no less;Yet we must take our counsel as we mayFor (flying years this lesson still convey),’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise,And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes.
Arthur Hugh Clough -
And almost every one when age,Disease, or sorrows strike him,Inclines to think there is a God,Or something very like Him.
Arthur Hugh Clough -
Thought may well be ever ranging,And opinion ever changing,Task-work be, though ill begun,Dealt with by experience better;By the law and by the letterDuty done is duty doneDo it, Time is on the wing!
Arthur Hugh Clough -
So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone,I with my secret self held communing of mine own.
Arthur Hugh Clough -
Honour thy parents; that is, allFrom whom advancement may befall:Thou shalt not kill; but need’st not striveOfficiously to keep alive.
Arthur Hugh Clough -
When panting sighs the bosom fill,And hands by chance united thrillAt once with one delicious painThe pulses and the nerves of twain;When eyes that erst could meet with ease,Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shunEcstatic conscious unison,-The sure beginnings, say, be thesePrelusive to the strain of loveWhich angels sing in heaven above?
Arthur Hugh Clough