skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. Cxxii Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck; Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail'd their lot; I did them wrong: We served thee here they said, so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?' So rapt I was, they. The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet. Or cloth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven? Lxix I dream'd there would be Spring no more, That Nature's ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter'd trifles at the door: I wander'd from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: nigel crawhall thesis I took the. CXX I trust I have not wasted breath: I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay: Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto. What reed was that on which I leant? Cxxvi Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know.
Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble. Xviii 'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. When crown'd with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes; And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother's face, As parting with a long. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.' Another answers, Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain That with his piping he may gain. Lxxviii Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess'd the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet. Xciv How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour's communion with the dead.
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I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret. But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darken'd earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. Some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway'd In vassal tides that follow'd. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin'd shells of hollow towers? Let her work prevail.
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