Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, "Am I your debtor?" And the Lord--"Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
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.
An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.
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.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.
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.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.
Oh good gray head which all men knew!
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.
There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
Tho' much is taken, much abides.
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