As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen; One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been. Cophetua sware a royal oath: This beggar maid shall be my queen!
Alfred Tennyson
His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound: I do forgive him!
sleep sound deeds
It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
sleep race
Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day.
sleep
The song that nerves a nation's heart Is in itself a deed.
nations deeds
Bury the Great Duke With an empire's lamentation; Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation; Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
nations
O young Mariner, You from the haven Under the sea-cliff, You that are watching The gray Magician With eyes of wonder, I am Merlin, And I am dying, I am Merlin Who follow The Gleam.
wonder wonders
But oh for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
sound
No sound is breathed so potent to coerce And to conciliate, as their names who dare For that sweet mother-land which gave them birth Nobly to do, nobly to die.
birth sound
All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
silence
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun.
dance
If I come dressed like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born, she said, And not the Lady Clare.
fortune maid
maid grace
Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
grace
Well, Gosse, would you like to know what I think of Churton Collins? I think he's a Louse on the Locks of Literature.
literature
Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.
evolution
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