All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
Oh good gray head which all men knew!
What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
Of old sat Freedom on the heights The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights; She heard the torrents meet.
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?
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.
Tho' much is taken, much abides.
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.
Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
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 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.
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
Ah, why Should life all labour be?
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.
Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.
She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
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.
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.
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