Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
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.
The noonday quiet holds the hill.
Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower-but if I could understand What you are, root and all, all in all, I should know what God and man is.
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
By blood a king, in heart a clown.
O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
O last regret, regret can die!
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.
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.
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.
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.
Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.
Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.
Come, Time, and teach me many years, I do not suffer in dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears.
I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.
This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.
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