Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!
Man is man, and master of his fate.
Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.
Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.
But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
And every dew-drop paints a bow.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.
The woman is so hard Upon the woman.
The woman's cause is man's. They rise or sink Together. / Dwarf'd or godlike, bound or free; miserable, / How shall men grow? - Let her be / All that not harms distinctive womanhood.
Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.
Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
Science grows and Beauty dwindles.
How fares it with the happy dead?
Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.
There is no land like England, Where'er the light of day be; There are no hearts like English hearts, Such hearts of oak as they be; There is no land like England, Where'er the light of day be: There are no men like Englishmen, So tall and bold as they be! And these will strike for England, And man and maid be free To foil and spoil the tyrant Beneath the greenwood tree.
The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.
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