For all thy foam, for all thy din,
Thee shall the pallid lake inurn,
With well-a-day for Mr. Swin-Burne!
Take then this quarto in thy fin
And, O thou stoker huge and stern,
The whole affair, outside and in,
Burn!
But save the true poetic kin,
The works of Mr. Robert Burn’
And William Wordsworth upon Tin-Tern!
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Who welcome you are but the guests of God,And know not our departure.
O CHIEF director of the growing race,
Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgiveBefore from labour I make haste to live?Some burn to gather wealth, lay hands on rule,Or with white statues fill the atrium full.The talking hearth, the rafters sweet with smoke,Live fountains and rough grass, my line invoke:A sturdy slave, not too learned wife,Nights filled with slumber, and a quiet…
LOOK round: You see a little supper room;
And the great dead themselves, with jovial breathBid you be merry and remember death.
When I was down beside the sea
To dig the sandy shore.My holes were empty like a cup.In every hole the sea came up,Till it could come no more.
LOUD and low in the chimney
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