Complete Works, Volume 5

Front Cover
National Library Company, 1909

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Page 335 - But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.
Page 322 - It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!
Page 340 - I KNOW not whether Laws be right, Or whether Laws be wrong; All that we know who lie in gaol Is that the wall is strong; And that each day is like a year, A year whose days are long.
Page 342 - With midnight always in one's heart, And twilight in one's cell, We turn the crank, or tear the rope, Each in his separate Hell, And the silence is more awful far Than the sound of a brazen bell. And never a human voice comes near To speak a gentle word...
Page 316 - Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!
Page 316 - Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel. And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel.
Page 341 - And bound with bars lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim. With bars they blur the gracious moon, And blind the goodly sun: And they do well to hide their Hell, For in it things are done That Son of God nor son of Man Ever should look upon!
Page 326 - Make a merry masquerade. We tore the tarry rope to shreds With blunt and bleeding nails; We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, And cleaned the shining rails: And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails. We...
Page 26 - ET in this stormy Northern sea, Queen of these restless fields of tide, England ! what shall men say of thee, Before whose feet the worlds divide ? The earth, a brittle globe of glass, Lies in the hollow of thy hand, And through its heart of crystal pass, Like shadows through a twilight land, The spears of crimson-suited war, The long white-crested waves of fight, And all the deadly fires which are The torches of the lords of Night. The yellow...
Page 336 - Their uniforms were spick and span, And they wore their Sunday suits, ' But we knew the work they had been at, By the quicklime on their boots. For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all : Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall.

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