Sir Edwin Arnold KCIE CSI (10 June 1832 – 24 March 1904) was an English poet and journalist, who is most known for his work The Light of Asia.
The royal kingcup bold Dares not don his coat of gold.
Early violets blue and white Dying for their love of light.
We are the voices of the wandering wind, Which moan for rest and rest can never find; Lo! as the wind is so is mortal life, A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife.
No power on earth compares to a mother's tender prayers.
Within yourself deliverance must be searched for, because each man makes hiw own prison.
There is no caste in blood.
That what will come, and must come, shall come well.
Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes, Or any searcher know by mortal mind; Veil upon veil will lift but there must be Veil upon veil behind.
Who doth right deeds Is twice born, and who doeth ill deeds vile.
Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours For one lone soul another lonely soul, Each choosing each through all the weary hours, And meeting strangely at one sudden goal, Then blend they, like green leaves with golden flowers, Into one beautiful and perfect whole; And life's long night is ended, and the way Lies open onward to eternal day.
Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and noble for the strong.
Like a plank of driftwood Tossed on the watery main, Another plank encountered, Meets, touches, parts again; So tossed, and drifting ever, On life's unresting sea, Men meet, and greet, and sever, Parting eternally.
Pity and need Make all flesh kin. There in no caste in blood.
Yet who shall shut out Fate?
Pity makes the world soft to the weak and noble to the strong.
Never the spirit was born; the spirit shall cease to be never; Never was time it was not; End and Beginning are dreams! Birth-less and deathless and changeless remaineth the spirit forever. Death hath not touched it all, dead though the house of it seems!
The foolish ofttimes teach the wise: I strain too much this string of life, belike, Meaning to make such music as shall save. Mine eyes are dim now that they see the truth, My strength is waned now that my need is most; Would that I had such help as man must have, For I shall die, whose life was all men's hope.
What good I see humbly I seek to do, And live obedient to the law, in trust That what will come, and must come, shall come well.
Don't poets know it Better than others? God can't be always everywhere: and, so, Invented Mothers