Night and vast caverns of rock and of iron; Voices like water, and voices like wind; Horror and tempests of hail that environ Shapes and the shadows of two who have sinned. ...
Love, that is first and last of all things made, The light that has the living world for shade, The spirit that for temporal veil has on The souls of all men woven in unison,...
But that same night in Cornwall oversea Couched at Queen Iseult's hand, against her knee, With keen kind eyes that read her whole heart's pain Fast at wide watch lay Tristram's hound Hodain,...
Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say,...
All worthies are not sung in song. That live their lives and do their deeds Where wounded nature writhes and bleeds Beneath the savage blows of wrong; From humble duties tender grown,...
Brown earth, sun-soaked, Beneath his head And over the quiet limbs.... Through time unreckoned Lay this brown earth for him. Now is he come. Truly he hath a sweet bed.
Once on a time, in sunshine weather, Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together, The neighbouring woods and lawns to view, As opposites will sometimes do: Through many a blooming mead they pass'd,...
Look around and see the great men Who have risen from the poor Some are judges, some are statesmen, Ther's a chance for you I'm sure. Don't give in because you're weary, Pleasure oft is bought by pain;...
This world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it, Yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain; Some grummel at times when they might do withaat it, An oft withaat reason complain....
My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-year To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear; Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogs...
Now, now the mirth comes With the cake full of plums, Where bean's the king of the sport here; Beside we must know, The pea also Must revel, as queen, in the court here.
Hullo! here's my platoon, the lot I had last year. "The war'll be over soon." "What 'opes?" "No bloody fear!" Then, "Number Seven, 'shun! All present and correct."...
'Twas in the flush of summer-time, Some twenty years or more, When Ernest lost his way, and crossed The threshold of our door. I'll ne'er forget his locks of jet, His brow of Alpine snow,...