“Brothers in Art: a friendship so complete”

“When in the down I sink my head,Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath;Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death,Nor can I dream of thee as dead:”

“Our little systems have their day;They have their day and cease to be…And thou, O Lord, art more than they.”

“Oh yet we trust that somehow goodWill be the final goal of ill,To pangs of nature, sins of will,Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;That nothing walks with aimless feet;That not one life shall be destroy'd,Or cast as rubbish to the void,When God hath made the pile complete;That not a worm is cloven in vain;That not a moth with vain desireIs shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,Or but subserves another's gain.Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last—far off—at last, to all,And every winter change to spring.So runs my dream: but what am I?An infant crying in the night:An infant crying for the light:And with no language but a cry.”

“So word by word, and line by line,The dead man touch'd me from the past,And all at once it seem'd at lastThe living soul was flash'd on mine,And mine in his was wound, and whirl'dAbout empyreal heights of thought,And came on that which is, and caughtThe deep pulsations of the world,Æonian music measuring outThe steps of Time—the shocks of Chance--The blows of Death. At length my tranceWas cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt.”

“Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.”

“There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate.The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"And the lily whispers, "I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead,Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.”