The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
The year is dying in the night.
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.
Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.
By blood a king, in heart a clown.
There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it It sound of funeral or of marriage bells.
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.
Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
The noonday quiet holds the hill.
There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.
O last regret, regret can die!
By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea.
From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
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