Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight.
And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two.
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.
Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long, That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever.
For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me night and day.
And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.
A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.
We needs must love the highest when we see it.
The mirror crack’d from side to side “The curse has come upon me,” cried The Lady of Shalott.
In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold.
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
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!
For always roaming with a hungry heart.