Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.
In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
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.
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.
We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.
The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.
The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
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.
France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.
The last great Englishman is low.
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.
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