Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
And leave your friends and go.
Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dread,
Look not to left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread
There’s nothing but the night.
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If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and brightAscends in smoke and fire by day and nightThe hate you died to quench and could but fan,Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,At the right hand of majesty on highYou sit, and sitting so remember…
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
From north and south the sign returnsAnd beacons burn again.Look left, look right, the hills are bright,The dales are light between,Because ’tis fifty years to-nightThat God has saved the Queen.Now, when the flame they watch not towersAbout the soil they trod,Lads, we’ll remember friends of oursWho shared the work with God.To skies that knit their…
Stay, if you list, O passer by the way;
I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit the brow,Nor grieve to think how ill God made me, now.Here, with one balm for many fevers found,Whole of an ancient evil, I sleep sound.
Into my heart an air that kills
What are those blue remembered hills,What spires, what farms are those?That is the land of lost content,I see it shining plain,The happy highways where I wentAnd cannot come again.
The world goes none the lamer
Because this cursed troubleHas struck my days and me.The stars of heaven are steady,The founded hills remain,Though I to earth and darknessReturn in blood and pain.Farewell to all belongingsI won or bought or stole;Farewell, my lusty carcase,Farewell, my aery soul.Oh worse remains for othersAnd worse to fear had IThan here at four-and-twentyTo lay me down…
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide.Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a score,It only leaves me fifty more.And since to look at things in bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
And leave your friends and go.
Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dread,
Look not to left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread
There’s nothing but the night.
Similar Posts
Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?
Yours was not an ill for mending,‘Twas best to take it to the grave.Oh you had forethought, you could reason,And saw your road and where it led,And early wise and brave in seasonPut the pistol to your head.Oh soon, and better so than laterAfter long disgrace and scorn,You shot dead the household traitor,The soul that…
High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
The bridges from the steepled crestCross the water east and west.The flag of morn in conqueror’s stateEnters at the English gate:The vanquished eve, as night prevails,Bleeds upon the road to Wales.Ages since the vanquished bledRound my mother’s marriage-bed;There the ravens feasted farAbout the open house of war:When Severn down to Buildwas ranColoured with the death…
As through the wild green hills of Wyre
And far behind, a fading crest,Low in the forsaken westSank the high-reared head of Clee,My hand lay empty on my knee.Aching on my knee it lay:That morning half a shire awaySo many an honest fellow’s fistHad well-nigh wrung it from the wrist.Hand, said I, since now we partFrom fields and men we know by heart,For…
Leave your home behind, lad,
And go, and luck go with youWhile Ludlow tower shall stand.Oh, come you home of SundayWhen Ludlow streets are stillAnd Ludlow bells are callingTo farm and lane and mill,Or come you home of MondayWhen Ludlow market humsAnd Ludlow chimes are playing‘The conquering hero comes,’Come you home a hero,Or come not home at all,The lads you…
If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and brightAscends in smoke and fire by day and nightThe hate you died to quench and could but fan,Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,At the right hand of majesty on highYou sit, and sitting so remember…
‘Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The hawthorn sprinkled up and downShould charge the land with snow.Spring will not wait the loiterer’s timeWho keeps so long away;So others wear the broom and climbThe hedgerows heaped with may.Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,Gold that I never see;Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedgeThat will not shower on me.