We pine for kindred natures
To mingle with our own.
Yet, taught by time, my heart has learned to glow
For other's good, and melt at other's woe.
Bowels of compassion.
World-wide apart, and yet akin,
As showing that the human heart
Beats on forever as of old.
For I no sooner in my heart divin'd,
My heart, which by a secret harmony
Still moves with thine, joined in connection
sweet.
Never elated while one man's oppress'd;
Never dejected while another's blessed.
Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!
Made answer to my word.
Christina G. Rossetti—Somewhere or Other.
If thou art something bring thy soul and interchange with mine.
It [true love] is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie.
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind.
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face,
A world of earthly blessings to my soul,
If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.
A sympathy in choice.
A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise.
TAILORS
(See also Apparel)
Twas when young Eustace wore his heart in's
breeches.
Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems—when they pay for coats.
Great is the Tailor, but not the greatest.
Sister, look ye,
How, by a new creation of my tailor's
I've shook off old mortality.
A tailor, though a man of upright dealing,—
True but for lying,—honest but for stealing,—
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance
And on the sudden was in wondrous trance.
One commending a Tayler for his dexteritie
in his profession, another standing by ratified
his opinion, saving tailors had their business at
their fingers' ends.
’Tis not the robe or garment I affect;
For who would marry with a suit of clothes?
Yes, if they would thank their maker,
And seek no further; but they have new creators,
God tailor and god mercer.
What a fine man
Hath your tailor made you!
As if thou e'er wert angry
But with thy tailor! and yet that poor shred
Can bring more to the making up of a man,
Than can be hoped from thee; thou art his creature;
And did he not, each morning, new create thee,
Thou'dst stink and be forgotten.
Get me some French tailor
To new-create you.
