My own heart let me more have pity on; let

Is anything a milk to the mind so, so sighs deepPoetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky.Say it is ashboughs: whether on a December day and furledFast ór they in clammyish lashtender combs creepApart wide and new-nestle at heaven most high.They touch heaven, tabour on it; how their talons sweepThe…

Earlier or you fail at our force, and lieThe ruins of, rifled, once a world of art?The telling time our task is; time’s some part,Not all, but we were framed to fail and die—One spell and well that one. There, ah therebyIs comfort’s carol of all or woe’s worst smart.Field-flown, the departed day no morning…

That bird beyond the remembering h{‘i}s free fells;This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age.Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stageBoth sing somet{‘i}mes the sweetest, sweetest spells,Yet both droop deadly s{‘o}metimes in their cellsOr wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest —Why, hear him, hear…

But the Bethlehem-star may lead meTo the sight of Him Who freed meFrom the self that I have been.Make me pure, Lord: Thou art holy;Make me meek, Lord: Thou wert lowly;Now beginning, and alway:Now begin, on Christmas day.

Tom; then Tom’s fallowbootfellow piles pickBy him and rips out rockfire homeforth—sturdy Dick;Tom Heart-at-ease, Tom Navvy: he is all for his mealSure, ’s bed now. Low be it: lustily he his low lot (feelThat ne’er need hunger, Tom; Tom seldom sick,Seldomer heartsore; that treads through, prickproof, thickThousands of thorns, thoughts) swings though. CommonwealLittle I reck…

With a ballad, with a ballad, a reboundOff trundled timber and scoops of the hillside ground, hollow hollow hollow ground:The whole landscape flushes on a sudden at a sound.