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It would fall to the ground if you came in.
In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,
Ever brightening

With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder: It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, though its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it-your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in.


THE plain was grassy,
wild and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air,
Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,

And loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.

Ever the weary wind went on,
And took the reed-tops as it went.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
And white against the cold-white sky
Shone out their crowning snows.
One willow over the river wept,
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh;
Above in the wind was the swallow,
Chasing itself as its own wild will,
And far through the marish green and still

The tangled watercourses slept,

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow,

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy

Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full and clear;
And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flowed forth on a carol free and bold:
As when a mighty people rejoice
With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled
Through the open gates of the city afar,
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star.
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds,
And the willow-branches hoar and dank,
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the silvery marish-flowers that throng
The desolate creeks and pools among,
Were flooded over with eddying song.



Now is done thy long day's work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave.

Shadows of the silver birk

Sweep the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

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Thee nor carketh care nor slander;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.
Let them rave.

Light and shadow ever wander
O'er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.


Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed;
Chanteth not the brooding bee
Sweeter tones than calumny ?
Let them rave.

Thou wilt never raise thine head
From the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.


Crocodiles wept tears for thee;
The woodbine and eglatere
Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear.
Let them rave.

Rain makes music in the tree

O'er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.


Round thee blow, self-pleached deep
Bramble-roses, faint and pale,
And long purples of the dale.

Let them rave.
These in every shower creep
Through the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.


The gold-eyed kingcups fine,
The frail bluebell peereth over

Rare broidry of the purple clover.
Let them rave.

Kings have no such couch as thine,
As the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.


Wild words wander here and there;
God's great gift of speech abused
Makes thy memory confused-
But let them rave.
The balm-cricket carols clear
In the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.


WHAT time the mighty moon was gathering light,
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise,
And all about him rolled his lustrous eyes;
When, turning round a cassia, full in view
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,
And talking to himself, first met his sight:
"You must begone," said Death; "these walks are

Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight;
Yet ere he parted said, "This hour is thine;
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,
So in the light of great eternity

Life eminent creates the shade of death;
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,
But I shall reign forever over all.”


My heart is wasted with my woe,

There is no rest for me below,

When the long dun wolds are ribbed with snow,
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow,


Alone I wander to and fro,

Ere the light on dark was growing,

At midnight the cock was crowing,

Winds were blowing, waters flowing,
We heard the steeds to battle going,

Aloud the hollow bugle blowing,

In the yew-wood, black as night,

Ere I rode into the fight,


While blissful tears blinded my sight,
By star-shine and by moonlight,


I to thee my troth did plight,

She stood

the castle wall,

She watched my crest among them all,

upon Oriana:

She saw me fight, she heard me call,
When forth there stept a foeman tall,

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