The Song of the Sword, and Other VersesD. Nutt, 1892 - 101 páginas |
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aëry morrice ancient anthology author's beauty BOOK OF VERSES brave bugles blown buxom calls CONSTABLE criticism DAILY dark DAVID NUTT dead Death delight desolate destiny dread dreams Edinburgh enchanted England English fade feel fleet floats freshness Geraldine ghost GLASGOW GLASGOW HERALD gleam gloom golden grace GRAPHIC.-'A Grave grey grope Gulls gyre hand Hark heart hell HENLEY A BOOK Henley's Lyra Heroica JAMES'S GAZETTE leafage light literary literature living LONDON PUBLISHED London Town looks majesty MANCHESTER GUARDIAN manly memories merry June morn was merry night numbers obscene Old Tree PALL MALL GAZETTE poems poet poetry prose PUBLISHED BY DAVID RONDEAUS round ruining sapphirine SATURDAY REVIEW SCOTSMAN sense shadow shining ships shore silence song soul sound stars strong style teeming things touch Transfigure Triple Trumpet tryst Verse for Boys Views and Reviews voice volume W. E. HENLEY wave whelps WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY wind Wind-Fiend
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Página 99 - WHAT have I done for you, England, my England ? What is there I would not do, England, my own ? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England — Round the world on your bugles blown ! Where shall the watchful Sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done. England, my own ? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown...
Página 100 - Such A breed of mighty men, As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England Down' the years on your bugles blown?
Página 39 - WHERE forlorn sunsets flare and fade On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange command Calling you still, as friend calls friend With love that cannot brook delay, To rise and follow the ways that wend Over the hills and far away ? Hark in the city, street on street A roaring reach of death and life, Of vortices that clash and fleet And ruin in appointed strife, Hark to it calling, calling clear, Calling until you cannot stay From dearer things...
Página 16 - Through street and square, through square and street, Each with his home-grown quality of dark And violated silence, loud and fleet, Waylaid by a merry ghost at every lamp, The hansom wheels and plunges. Hark, O, hark...
Página 26 - Tis El Dorado — El Dorado plain, The Golden City! And when a girl goes by, Look! as she turns her glancing head, A call of gold is floated from her ear! Golden, all golden! In a golden glory, Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky, The day, not dies but, seems Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed Upon a past of golden song and story And memories of gold and golden dreams.
Página 9 - Follow, O follow, then, Heroes, my harvesters! Where the tall grain is ripe Thrust in your sickles! Stripped and adust In a stubble of empire, Scything and binding The full sheaves of sovranty: Thus, O, thus gloriously, Shall you fulfil yourselves!
Página 54 - Life — life — let there be life ! Better a thousand times the roaring hours When wave and wind, Like the Arch-Murderer in flight From the Avenger at his heel, Storm through the desolate fastnesses And wild waste places of the world ! Life — give me life until the end, That at the very top of being, The battle-spirit shouting in my blood, Out of the reddest hell of the fight I may be snatched and flung Into the everlasting lull, The immortal, incommunicable dream.
Página 19 - See the batch of boats, Here at the stairs, washed in the fresh-sprung beam! And those are barges that were goblin floats, Black, hag-steered, fraught with devilry and dream! And in the piles the water frolics clear, The ripples into loose rings wander and flee, And we— we can behold that could but hear The ancient River singing as he goes, New-mailed in morning, to the ancient Sea.
Página 52 - Space and dread and the dark Over a livid stretch of sky Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train Of huge, primeval presences Stooping beneath the weight Of some enormous, rudimentary grief; While in the haunting loneliness The far sea waits and wanders with a sound As of the trailing skirts of Destiny, Passing unseen To some immitigable end With her grey henchman, Death.
Página 101 - They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own! You whose mailed hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England, Round the Pit on your bugles blown!