Virtue must shape itself in deed.
Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
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?
In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.
Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch’d forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
That man’s the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room.
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.