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.
Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
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.
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.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
Man's word is God in man.
Oh good gray head which all men knew!
Tho' much is taken, much abides.
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thoughts; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the waves In roarings round the coral reef.
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
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.
By blood a king, in heart a clown.
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