a-roving Arabian Night Badroulbadour BALLADE Bedreddin blackbird blackbird plays bless blue bugles blown cheerful clouds comes dark dead dear Death dews dream dusk east Floated Elizabeth Robins Pennell enchanted Envoy eyes face faded Fate's a fiddler fleet floats friends ghost gleam gloom go a-maying goes gold golden grace grave gray green grey hand Hark heart heart of midnight Herne the Hunter irresistible song laughed lean Life's a dance light lingering living loitering look loud Love blows Midsummer days Midsummer nights mistress of mistresses Nightingale pass pride quiet ring river roaring rose round sand sang serene shadows shining shore silent singing skies sleep smile song soul sound spirit spring staring stars stars is burning strange street summer sunset sunshine sweet Sword thought Thro touch Vanity of Vanities voice wander wild wind wine wood's green words world of Age
119 psl. - Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate...
253 psl. - WHAT have I done for you, England, my England ? What is there I would not do, England, my own ? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England Round the world on your bugles blown ! Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own ? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown...
194 psl. - Calls to his millions to behold and see How goodly this his London Town can be ! For earth and sky and air Are golden everywhere, And golden with a gold so suave and fine The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
253 psl. - Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice agen, Such A breed of mighty men, As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England Down' the years on your bugles blown?
161 psl. - A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies ; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing...
112 psl. - WHAT is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear.
254 psl. - Ever the faith endures, England, my England : ' Take and break us : we are yours, England, my own ! Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky : Death is death ; but we shall die To the Song on your bugles blown...
54 psl. - Driving the darkness, Even as the banners And spears of the Morning ; Sifting the nations, The slag from the metal, The waste and the weak From the fit and the strong ; Fighting the brute, The abysmal Fecundity ; Checking the gross, Multitudinous blunders, The groping, the purblind Excesses in service Of the Womb universal, The absolute drudge...