The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked and where are they?
The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.
My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.
Laughter not time destroyed my voice And put that crack in it, And when the moon's pot-bellied I get a laughing fit.
Though logic-choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy.
Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
now I bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew When Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound.
As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead, For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said. Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind.
The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay.
Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
Because the priest must have like every dog his day Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, We and our dolls being but the world were best away.
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain, The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord, Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred, Troy backed its Helen, Troy died and adored; Great nations blossom above, A slave bows down to a slave.
I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.
It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.
How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.
An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?
I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made.
It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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