Arthur Hugh Clough
Arthur Hugh Clough was an English poet, an educationalist, and the devoted assistant to ground-breaking nurse Florence Nightingale. He was the brother of suffragist Anne Clough, who ended up as principal of Newnham College, Cambridge.
Arthur Clough was born in Liverpool to James Butler Clough, a cotton merchant of Welsh descent, and Anne Perfect, from Pontefract in Yorkshire. In 1822 the family moved to the United States, and Clough's early childhood was spent mainly in Charleston, South Carolina. In 1828 Clough and his older brother Charles returned to England to attend school in Chester. In 1829 Clough began attending Rugby School, then under Thomas Arnold, whose... more »
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Arthur Hugh Clough Poems
Say not the Struggle Naught availeth
SAY not the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.
There Is No God, the Wicked Sayeth
"There is no God," the wicked saith, "And truly it's a blessing, For what He might have done with us It's better only guessing."
The Latest Decalogue
Thou shalt have one God only; who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipp'd, except the currency:
All Is Well
Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed, Keep, keep it snug within your breast, And lay you down and take your rest; And when you wake, to work again,
Through a Glass Darkly
What we, when face to face we see The Father of our souls, shall be, John tells us, doth not yet appear; Ah! did he tell what we are here!
Where Lies the Land to Which the Ship Wo...
Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
Across the Sea Along the Shore
Across the sea, along the shore, In numbers more and ever more, From lonely hut and busy town, The valley through, the mountain down,
Ah! Yet Consider it Again!
"Old things need not be therefore true," O brother men, nor yet the new; Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, And yet consider it again!
In a Lecture Room
Away, haunt thou me not, Thou vain Philosophy! Little hast thou bestead, Save to perplex the head,
With Whom is no Variableness, Neither Sh...
It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.
The Thread of Truth
Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there In small bright specks upon the visible side Of our strange being's parti-coloured web. How rich the universe! 'Tis a vein of ore
In a London Square
Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, East wind and frost are safely gone; With zephyr mild and balmy rain The summer comes serenly on;
Amours de Voyage, Canto I
Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, Come, let us go,--to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.
Qua Cursum Ventus
As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried;
Quotationsmore quotations »
''If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars.''Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861), British poet. repr. In Collected Poems, ed. C. Whibley (1913). "Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth," (1862).
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Say not the Struggle Naught availeth
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, ...