Poems (Google eBook)

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Page 175 - MY good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.
Page 16 - If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
Page 95 - In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Page 91 - Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices.
Page 230 - O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
Page 8 - What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : ' I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds.
Page 178 - A maiden knight to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose...
Page 105 - For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; I leard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'da ghastly dew From the nations...
Page 9 - This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.
Page 89 - IT little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole* Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me...

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