He is a most unpleasant brute
To find in bed at night.
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I will not try the reach again,
To moor a boat bereft of menAt Yarnton’s tiny docks of stone.But I will sit beside the fire,And put my hand before my eyes,And trace, to fill my heart’s desire,The last of all our Odysseys.The quiet evening kept her tryst:Beneath an open sky we rode,And passed into a wandering mistAlong the perfect Evenlode.The tender Evenlode…
Most Holy Night, that still dost keep
To me when my tired eyelids closeGive thou repose.And let the far lament of themThat chaunt the dead day’s requiemMake in my ears, who wakeful lie,Soft lullaby.Let them that guard the hornàed MoonBy my bedside their memories croon.So shall I have new dreams and blestIn my brief rest.Fold thy great wings about my face,Hide day-dawn…
Torture will give a dozen pence or more
The public taste is quite a different thing-Torture is positively paid to sing.
The Vulture eats between his meals,
He very, very, rarely feelsAs well as you and I.His eye is dull, his head is bald,His neck is growing thinner.Oh! what a lesson for us allTo only eat at dinner!
Because my faltering feet may fail to dare
Give me the Word in time that triumphs there.I too must pass into the misty hollowWhere all our living laughter stops: and hark!The tiny stuffless voices of the darkHave called me, called me, till I needs must follow:Give me the Word and I’ll attempt it well.Say it’s the little winking of an eyeWhich in that…
The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,And a good little child will not play with him.