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.
Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.
O last regret, regret can die!
There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.
Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.