No star is lost at all
From all the star-sown sky.
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault;
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt.
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The star-filled seas are smooth to-night
Black towers above the Portland lightThe felon-quarried stone.On yonder island, not to rise,Never to stir forth free,Far from his folk a dead lad liesThat once was friends with me.Lie you easy, dream you light,And sleep you fast for aye;And luckier may you find the nightThan ever you found the day.
Farewell to a name and a number
To darkness and silence and slumberIn blood and pain.So ceases and turns to the thingHe was born to beA soldier cheap to the KingAnd dear to me;So smothers in blood the burningAnd flaming flightOf valour and truth returningTo dust and night.
Oh, when I was in love with you,
And miles around the wonder grewHow well did I behave.And now the fancy passes by,And nothing will remain,And miles around they’ll say that IAm quite myself again.
With rue my heart is laden
For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.
At the door of my own little hovel,
And as I was reading the novelA gnat flew away with my hat.As fast as a fraudulent bankerAway with my hat it fled,And calmly came to an anchorIn the midst of the cucumber-bed.I went and purchased a yachtAnd traversed the garden-tank,And I gave it that insect hotWhen I got to the other bank;Of its life…
‘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.