Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
Current among men, Like coin, the tinsel clink of compliment.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.
This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.
That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?
Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
The many fail: the one succeeds.
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove; In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Any man that walks the mead In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind.
As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play’d, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
For this is England’s greatest son, He that gain’d a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.