The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
By blood a king, in heart a clown.
Authority forgets a dying king.
The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.
One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.
Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.
We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother’s shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.
What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.
Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass,...
Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.
Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.
Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?
All precious things, discover’d late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.