Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men’s believing.
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Blue, blue is the grass about the river
And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth.White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.Slender, she puts forth a slender hand;And she was a courtezan in the old days,And she has married a sot,Who now goes drunkenly outAnd leaves her too much alone.
1 his papier-mâché, which you see, my friends,
Its mind was made up in ‘the seventies’,Nor hath it ever since changed that concoction.It works to represent that school of thoughtWhich brought the hair-cloth chair to such perfection,Nor will the horrid threats of Bernard ShawShake up the stagnant pool of its convictions;Nay, should the deathless voice of all the worldSpeak once again for its…
The petals fall in the fountain,
Their ochre clings to the stone.
Aye you’re a man that ! ye old mesmerizer
One must of needs be a hang’d early riserTo catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd’s body-kins!‘Cat’s i’ the water butt!’ Thought’s in your verse-barrel,Tell us this thing rather, then we’ll believe you,You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparelJump to your sense and give praise as we’d lief do.You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope,But…
I join these words for four people,
O world, I am sorry for you,You do not know these four people.
I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Of Daphne and the laurel bowAnd that god-feasting couple oldthat grew elm-oak amid the wold.‘Twas not until the gods had beenKindly entreated, and been brought withinUnto the hearth of their heart’s homeThat they might do this wonder thing;Nathless I have been a tree amid the woodAnd many a new thing understoodThat was rank folly to…