The last great Englishman is low.
Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men’s good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek’d and slaked the light with blood.
It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.
The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.
Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.
Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law Though Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shrieked against his creed.
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?
O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.