Some plod through dusty lowlands, and some fly
On even wings beneath a constant sky;
Yet surely this is very good to know:
Little the Master recks of how we go;
Not His to mark the devious, winding ways
Of that long journey through the little days;
Not His to plan the separate road for each,
Who judges only by that goal we reach.

Nor do I think the angels smile to see
How blindly some may grope and awkwardly;
Nor do I think their high approval springs
For those who know the glorious gift of wings.
Only I think that, all exultant, one

Devers Paris, un soir, dans la campagne,
J'allais suivant l'ornière d'un chemin,
Seul avec moi, n'ayant d'autre compagne
Que ma douleur qui me donnait la main.

L'aspect des champs était sévère et morne,
En harmonie avec l'aspect des cieux;
Rien n'était vert sur la plaine sans borne,
Hormis un parc planté d'arbres très vieux.

Je regardai bien longtemps par la grille,
C'était un parc dans le goût de Watteau
Ormes fluets, ifs noirs, verte charmille,
Sentiers peignés et tirés au cordeau.

Je m'en allai l'âme triste et ravie;

Sleep, sleep today, tormenting cares
Of earth and folly born!
Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.

Tomorrow will be time enough
To feel your harsh controul;
Ye shall not violate, this day,
The sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep for ever, guilty thoughts!
Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purg'd from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

In the sightless air I dwell,
On the sloping sunbeams play;
Delve the cavern's inmost cell,
Where never yet did daylight stray:

Dive beneath the green sea-waves,
And gambol in the briny deeps;
Skim every shore that Neptune laves,
From Lapland's plains to India's steeps.

Oft I mount with rapid force
Above the wide earth's shadowy zone;
Follow the day-star's flaming course
Through realms of space to thought unknown:

And listen oft celestial sounds
That swell the air unheard of men,
As I watch my nightly rounds

Pass, pass the song—let all be glad;
Let fame a flowery garland wreathe us;
Why should a single soul be sad,
When friends of former years are with us?
For those are friends who still endure,
Through all the changes life can send us!
And who would wish a joy more pure,
Than when such friends their presence lend us?

Then fill me up a flowing glass,
To pledge those friends of memory near us;
Though years with arrow-swiftness pass,
Their happy faces still can cheer us!
For those are friends who still endure,

That sputter of rain, flipping the hedge-rows
And making the highways hiss,
How I love it!
And the touch of you upon my arm
As you press against me that my umbrella
May cover you.

Tinkle of drops on stretched silk.
Wet murmur through green branches.

Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawn
When a bird flies
And the sky changes to a fresher colour.

Speak, speak, Beloved.
Say little things
For my ears to catch
And run with them to my heart.

Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of sand,
Here ivory smooth, here cloven and ridged with flow
Of channelled waters soft as rain or snow,
Stretch their lone length at ease beneath the bland
Grey gleam of skies whose smile on wave and strand
Shines weary like a man's who smiles to know
That now no dream can mock his faith with show,
Nor cloud for him seem living sea or land

Is there an end at all of all this waste,
These crumbling cliffs defeatured and defaced,
These ruinous heights of sea-sapped walls that slide

Patience, long sick to death, is dead. Too long
Have sloth and doubt and treason bidden us be
What Cromwell's England was not, when the sea
To him bore witness given of Blake how strong
She stood, a commonweal that brooked no wrong
From foes less vile than men like wolves set free
Whose war is waged where none may fight or flee—
With women and with weanlings. Speech and song
Lack utterance now for loathing. Scarce we hear
Foul tongues that blacken God's dishonoured name
With prayers turned curses and with praise found shame

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
—Old year, you must not die;
—You came to us so readily,
—You lived with us so steadily,
—Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still, he doth not move;
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above,
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New-year will take 'mdash away.
—Old year, you must not go;
—So long as you have been with us,