Quotes from Henry Abbey

Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore Of a great sea beyond.

The end we know not; but we wander on, Down the regretful wilderness of time.

Love is the key-note of the universe-- The theme, the melody.

The moon will press her dimpled cheek Against the bosom of the sky, And, as we dreamed once, seem to speak To silver clouds which drift them by.

Our yesterdays are like a lonely and a ruined land wherein a breeze of recollection sighs--a fading land to which is no return.

Hear in a realm of wordless dreams-- That inner life which knows and thinks; My thirsty spirit comes and drinks The petal dew of golden streams; Where death is less than what it seems, And life is subtler than the Sphinx.

All governments, books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all the stark realities that men have made, are but imagination's utterances.

What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship that will cross the sea, we plant the mast to carry the sails, we plant the planks to withstand the gales--the keel, the keelson, and beam and knee--we plant the ship when we plant the tree.

I sought for love on the highway, For love unselfish and pure, And found it in good deeds blooming, Tho' often in haunts obscure.

We watch our hopes, far flickering in the night, Once radiant torches, lighted in our youth, To guide, through years, to some broad morn of truth; But these go out and leave us with no light.

We see the clouds of summer go and come, And thirsty verdure praying them to give: We cry, "O Nature, tell us why we live!" She smiles with beauty, but her lips are dumb.

Love is the key-note of the universe--the theme, the melody.

In Success few mornings frown; For the youth, to view the town, When morning came, with Sorrow went Through statued park and street; And they joined a gilded throng, As it coldly moved along Toward the temple built to Fortune, Low to worship at her feet.

The noblest works of human art and pride show that their makers were not satisfied.

For looking down the ladder of our deeds, The rounds seem slender: all past work appears Unto the doer faulty: the heart bleeds, And pale Regret comes weltering in tears, To think how poor our best has been, how vain, Beside the excellence we would attain.

The years like birds of passage go To that eternal clime, the past; And May's immortal lot is cast Upon their flight o'er all below, Like sunlight on a field of snow, Or some sweet rose-leaf on the blast.

In the temple, high in place Stood Dame Fortune, fair of face, Holding Plutus, god of riches, In her fond and fickle arms. Horns of plenty at her feet Emptied half their contents sweet, And winged Cupid stood before her, Fascinated by her charms.

We journey up the storied Nile; The timeless water seems to smile; The slow and swarthy boatman sings; The dahabeah spreads her wings; We catch the breeze and sail away, Along the dawning of the day, Along the East, wherein the morn Of life and truth was gladly born.

Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore of a great sea beyond.

The end we know not; but we wander on, down the regretful wilderness of time.

All bold, great actions that are seen too near, Look rash and foolish to unthinking eyes; But at a distance they at once appear In their true grandeur.

Men over-estimate what they desire Through ignorance of it: credulous Pursuit Thinks his betrothed, Possession, is divine; But finds she is a mortal like himself.

I am the far-seen mountain Before thee towering high, Where, peak beyond peak reaching, Rise others such as I. Our dark-blue robes at twilight We draw about our forms; Ours is the boundless quiet That dwells above the storms.

The Summer-time will come again To kiss the brow of dying Spring, And, with the south wind's low refrain, A choral requiem will she sing.