And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.
Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.
Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
The last great Englishman is low.
So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
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