Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,

Poet, take up your lyre;
No more shall warlike fire
Inflame the earth and sea;
Cease from your martial strain,
Sing songs of peace again,
Sing of a world set free.

No more sing fear and hate
While armies devastate,
Nor boast of foes withstood;
Let mercy be your theme,
Renew the old, fair dream
Of human brotherhood.

No more the trumpet blast
Shall call to conflict fast,
The flame of war grows pale;
Sing, Poet, God-inspired,
Till all the world is fired
With love that shall not fail.

The poet hath the child's sight in his breast
And sees all new . What oftenest he has viewed
He views with the first glory. Fair and good
Pall never on him, at the fairest, best,
But stand before him holy and undressed
In week-day false conventions, such as would
Drag other men down from the altitude
Of primal types, too early dispossessed.
Why, God would tire of all his heavens, as soon
As thou, O godlike, childlike poet, didst
Of daily and nightly sights of sun and moon!
And therefore hath He set thee in the midst

A Poet! — He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree

Sonnet xvii

Beneath a sable vaile, and Shadowes deepe,
Of Unaccessible and dimming light,
In Silence ebane Clouds more blacke than Night,
The Worlds great King his secrets hidde doth keepe:
Through those Thicke Mistes when any Mortall Wight
Aspires, with halting pace, and Eyes that weepe,
To pore, and in his Misteries to creepe,
With Thunders hee and Lightnings blastes their Sight.
O Sunne invisible, that dost abide
Within thy bright abysmes, most faire, most darke,
Where with thy proper Rayes thou dost thee hide;

Fair eastern star, that art ordained to run
Before the sages, to the rising sun,
Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud
Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud:
Ye, heavenly bodies; glory to be bright,
And are esteemed as ye are rich in light;
But here on earth is taught a different way,
Since under this low roof the highest lay.
Jerusalem erects her stately towers,
Displays her windows, and adorns her bowers;
Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark:
Let Herod's palace still continue dark;

My dearest consort, my more loved heart,
I leave thee now: with thee all earthly joying:
Heaven knows with thee I sadly part:
All other earthly sweets have had their cloying;
Yet never full of thy sweet loves' enjoying,
Thy constant loves, next Heaven I did refer them;
Had not much grace prevail'd, 'fore Heaven I should prefer them.

I leave them, now the trumpet calls away;
In vain thine eyes beg for some time's reprieving;
Yet in my children here immortal stay:
In one I die, in many ones am living:

Lord, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying:
My time, my flesh, my life, and I,
What are we, Lord, but vanity?

Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death.
What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending;
My sport sin too, my stay a puff of breath.
What end of sin? Hell's horror never ending:
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place,
Help to make up my doleful case.

It has always been King Herod that I feared;
— King Herod and his kinsmen, ever since. . . .
I do not like the colour of your beard;
— I think that you are wicked, and a prince.

I keep no stable . . . how your horses stamp! . . .
— If you are wise men, you will leave me soon;
I have been frightened by a thievish tramp
— Who counted bloody silver in the moon.

You get no lodging underneath these roofs,
— No, though you pay in frankincense and myrrh;
Your harness jangles with your horses' hooves;

The Father of his country stood
And saw awake the glittering plain;
As morn on mountain height and wood
Returned to look again.

As in his boyhood's earliest hour,
In nature's forest home untrod,
The noblest form of human power
Kneels childlike to his God.

His sword, that through the battle cloud
Flashed terror on his country's foe,
Its lightening hides beneath the shroud