Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say; And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field, And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day....
I remember a house where all were good To me, God knows, deserving no such thing: Comforting smell breathed at very entering, Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood....
This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
I Wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black ho'rs we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light's delay....
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end? ...
I Awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, |in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe | of a finger-nail held to the candle,...
The dappled die-away Cheek and wimpled lip, The gold-wisp, the airy-grey Eye, all in fellowship - This, all this beauty blooming, This, all this freshness fuming, Give God while worth consuming....
My own heart let me have more pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get...
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less; The times are winter, watch, a world undone: They waste, they wither worse; they as they run Or bring more or more blazon man's distress....
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting? Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?...
O I admire and sorrow! The heart's eye grieves Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years. A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves, And beauty's dearest veriest vein is tears.
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks; To do without, take tosses, and obey....
When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut, Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs? When, when, Peac', will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite...
Who long for rest, who look for pleasure Away from counter, court, or school O where live well your lease of leisure But here at, here at Penmaen Pool? ...
Glory be to God for dappled things - For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim: Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;...
Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leav's throng And louch'd low grass, heaven that dost appeal To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel; That canst but only be, but dost that long - ...
Nothing is so beautiful as spring - When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring...
M'rgar't, 're you gr'eving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Le'ves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? 'h! 's the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder...