Emotions and Feelings

No light, but rather darkness visible.

The infernal serpent; he it was, whose guile, Stirr’d up with envy and revenge, deceiv’d The mother of mankind.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclin’d, I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Yet I argue not Against Heav’n’s hand or will, nor bate one jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up, and steer Right onward.

Yet I argue not Against Heav’n’s hand or will, nor bate one jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up, and steer Right onward.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave.

Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter’d saints, whose bones Lie scatter’d on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipp’d stocks and stones Forget not.

Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodg’d with me useless.

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said; But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!

Tis Chastity, my brother, Chastity: She that has that, is clad in complete steel.

Such sober certainty of waking bliss.

Virtue could see to do what Virtue would By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom’s self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, Where, with her best nurse Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings.

A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beck’ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men’s names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground, In a light fantastic round.

Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.

Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth.

Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!

And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

Hail divinest Melancholy.

Sober, steadfast, and demure.