Lord of
Lord of
book squares looks
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
girl queens women
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
common grain wells
And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
wall flower space
Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
wind littles aspens
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.
men cups born
Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
mother sweet father
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
priests delicate heard
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
sweet blow purple
O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
wall fall blow
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
men vex want
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
eye artist hair
Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
lying clouds house
Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
men dies happy-man
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.