There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
The thrall in person may be free in soul.
That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
He is all fault who has no fault at all.
Every man at time of Death, Would fain set forth some saying that may live After his death and better humankind; For death gives life’s last word a power to live, And, lie the stone-cut epitaph, remain After the vanished voice, and speak to men.
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.
Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.
And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
A sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
What’s up is faith, what’s down is heresy.
Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.