But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Ah, why Should life all labour be?
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.
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.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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.