It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
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.
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.
There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.
Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
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.
The year is dying in the night.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
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.
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!
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.
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
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.
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.
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
The last great Englishman is low.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
By blood a king, in heart a clown.
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