Passages from Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress, and Other Poems

The heaviest thing you will ever have to carry is yourself.

God strengthen me to bear myself;That heaviest weight of all to bear,Inalienable weight of care.All others are outside myself,I lock my door and bar them outThe turmoil, tedium, gad-about.I lock my door upon myself,And bar them out; but who shall wallSelf from myself, most loathed of all?If I could once lay down myself,And start self-purged upon the raceThat all must run! Death runs apace.

A shut mouth can be its own kind of refusal.

One may lead a horse to water,Twenty cannot make him drink.Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,Coaxed and fought her,Bullied and besought her,Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,Kicked and knocked her,Mauled and mocked her,Lizzie uttered not a word;Would not open lip from lipLest they should cram a mouthful in:

The thing you love by daylight has a different face at night.

By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair:But all night as the moon so changeth she;Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosyAnd subtle serpents gliding in her hair.By day she woos me to the outer air,Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety:But through the night, a beast she grins at me,A very monster void of love and prayer.By day she stands a lie: by night she standsIn all the naked horror of the truthWith pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.Is this a friend indeed; that I should sellMy soul to her, give her my life and youth,Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?

The particular sweetness of being mourned by someone who never loved you.

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was sweptAnd strewn with rushes, rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say:‘Poor child, poor child:’ and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:He did not love me living; but once deadHe pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm though I am cold.

Being the life of the party while your heart quietly breaks upstairs.

Downstairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all;But in my solitary room aboveI turn my face in silence to the wall;My heart is breaking for a little love.Though winter frosts are done,And birds pair every one,And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:Woe’s me for mine own heart that dwells alone,My heart that breaketh for a little love.

Handing someone your heart and being told to come back when it's riper.

I took my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak—(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scanned,Then set it down,And said: It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;

What if the road is uphill the whole way, and that changes nothing?

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before. 10Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door.

The party goes on, and you are the one it has forgotten.

‘To-morrow,’ said they, strong with hope,And dwelt upon the pleasant way:‘To-morrow,’ cried they, one and all,While no one spoke of yesterday.Their life stood full at blessed noon;I, only I, had passed away:‘To-morrow and to-day,’ they cried;I was of yesterday.I shivered comfortless, but castNo chill across the tablecloth;I, all-forgotten, shivered, sadTo stay, and yet to part how loth:

A refusal delivered with such good manners it takes a while to sting.

I have no heart?—Perhaps I have not;But then you’re mad to take offenceThat I don’t give you what I have not got:Use your own common sense.Let bygones be bygones:Don’t call me false, who owed not to be true:I’d rather answer ‘No’ to fifty JohnsThan answer ‘Yes’ to you.