Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
Attain the unattainable.
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.
Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.
A beam in darkness: let it grow.
A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.
I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
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.