Quotes
Quotes about Art
He had a startling genius, but somehow it did n't emerge;
Always on the evolution of things that would n't evolve;
Always verging toward some climax, but he never reached the verge;
Always nearing the solution of some theme he could not solve.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say:
"Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away."
? John Bartlett, compYou shall not change, but a nobler race of men
Shall walk beneath the stars and wander by the shore;
I can not guess their glory, but I think the sky and sea
Will bring to them more gladness than they brought to us of yore.
? John Bartlett, compNo man can feel himself alone
The while he bravely stands
Between the best friends ever known
His two good, honest hands.
Is this wide world not large enough to fill thee,
Nor Nature, nor that deep man's Nature, Art?
Are they too thin, too weak and poor to still thee,
Thou little heart?
? John Bartlett, compEverything has an ending: there will be
An ending one sad day for you and me,
And ending of the days we had together,
The good companionship, all kinds of weather.
? John Bartlett, compWhene'er I walk the public ways,
How many poor that lack ablution
Do probe my heart with pensive gaze,
And beg a trivial contribution!
Land of Heart's Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.
? John Bartlett, compHer reasoning is full of tricks
And butterfly suggestions,
I know no point to which she sticks;
She begs the simplest questions,
And, when her premises are strong
She always draws her inference wrong.
? John Bartlett, compAt daybreak Morn shall come to me
In raiment of the white winds spun.
There's too much beauty upon this earth
For lonely men to bear.
The gods despise enforcèd offerings.
When the heart brings its dearest and its last
Then only will they hear--if then, if then!
Hark, below, the many-voiced earth,
The chanting of the old religious trees,
Rustle of far-off waters, woven sounds
Of small and multitudinous lives awake,
Peopling the grasses and the pools with joy,
Uttering their meaning to the mystic night!
He was himself and he had lost the speed
He started with, and he was left behind.
The tumult and the shouting dies,--
The Captains and the Kings depart,--
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat.
It's clever, but is it art?
When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it--lie down for an æon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!
Enough of dreams! No longer mock
The burdened hearts of men!
Not on the cloud, but on the rock.
Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
Our eyes could never see.
? John Bartlett, compThere was ease in Casey's manner as he stept into his place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,
And when responding to the cheers he lightly doft his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt, 't was Casey at the bat.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has "struck out."
I am immortal! I know it! I feel it!
Hope floods my heart with delight!
Running on air, mad with life, dizzy, reeling,
Upward I mount--faith is sight, life is feeling,
Hope is the day-star of might!
O star on the breast of the river!
O marvel of bloom and grace!
Did you fall right down from heaven,
Out of the sweetest place?
You are white as the thoughts of an angel,
Your heart is steeped in the sun;
Did you grow in the Golden City,
My pure and radiant one?"
"Nay, nay, I fell not out of heaven;
None gave me my saintly white;
It slowly grew from the darkness,
Down in the dreary night.
From the ooze of the silent river,
I win my glory and grace,
White souls fall not, O my poet,
They rise to the sweetest place."
Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean,
Where heartsome wi' thee I hae mony days been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We 'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
