For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
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.
All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
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 sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
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.
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
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
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.
So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight
And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
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.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: