Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie
The 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 thereby
Is comfort’s carol of all or woe’s worst smart.
Field-flown, the departed day no morning brings
Saying ‘This was yours’ with her, but new one, worse,
And then that last and shortest…
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As king fishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’sBow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,Crying What I do is me: for that I came.I say more: the just…
My own heart let me have more have pity on; let
Charitable; not live this tormented mindWith this tormented mind tormenting yet.I cast for comfort I can no more getBy groping round my comfortless, than blindEyes in their dark can day or thirst can findThirst ‘s all-in-all in all a world of wet.Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do adviseYou, jaded, let be; call off thoughts…
Moonless darkness stands between.
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.
Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavés throng
To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel;That canst but only be, but dost that long—Thou canst but be, but that thou well dost; strongThy plea with him who dealt, nay does now deal,Thy lovely dale down thus and thus bids reelThy river, and o’er gives all to rack or wrong.And what is…
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foamFlutes and low to the lake falls home.A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-frothTurns and twindles over the brothOf a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.Degged with dew, dappled with dew,Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,And…
A buglar boy from barrack (it is over the hill
Mother to an English sire (heShares their best gifts surely, fall how things will),This very very day came down to us after a boon he onMy late being there begged of me, overflowingBoon in my bestowing,Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion.Here he knelt then ín regimental red.Forth Christ from cupboard fetched,…