ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

The highest political buzz word is not liberty, equality, fraternity or solidarity; it is service.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars.

A world where nothing is had for nothing.

And almost every one, when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like him.

Grace is given of god, but knowledge is bought in the market.

Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition, Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition?

Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

Say not the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been, things remain ... For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And no by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But, westward, look, the land is bright.

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition.

‘Tis better to have fought and lost, Than not to have fought at all.

The world is very odd we see. We do not comprehend it; But in one fact we can all agree, God won’t and we can’t mend it.

I watched them from the window, thy children at their play, And I thought of all my own dear friends, who were far, oh, far away, And childish loves, and childish cares, and a child's own buoyant gladness Came gushing back again to me with a soft and solemn sadness; And feelings frozen up full long, and thoughts of long ago, Seemed to be thawing at my heart with a warm and sudden flow.

Tis possible, young sir, that some excess Mars youthful judgment and old men's no less; Yet we must take our counsel as we may For (flying years this lesson still convey), 'Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise, And not to use, but still correct one's eyes.

Out of sight is out of mind.

There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who arrays our battalions; Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in our stations.

Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, East wind and frost are safely gone; With zephyr mild and balmy rain The summer comes serenely on; Earth, air, and sun and skies combine To promise all that's kind and fair: But thou, O human heart of mine, Be still, contain thyself, and bear.

Afloat.We move: Delicious! Ah, What else is like the gondola?

O tell me, friends, while yet we part, And heart can yet be heard of heart, O tell me then, for what is it Our early plan of life we quit; From all our old intentions range, And why does all so wholly change? O tell me, friends, while yet we part!

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'er My gay green leaves are yellow-black, Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more.

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!

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, Merelya marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright.