Our souls shall be Leviathans
In purple seas of wine
When drunkenness is dead with death,
And drink is all divine;
Learning in those immortal vats
What mortal vineyards mean;
For only in heaven we shall know
How happy we have been.

Like clouds that wallow in the wind
Be free to drift and drink;
Tower without insolence when we rise,
Without surrender sink:
Dreams dizzy and crazy we shall know
And have no need to write
Our blameless blasphemies of praise,
Our nightmares of delight.

For so in such misshapen shape

We will not let thee be, for thou art ours.
We thank thee still, though thou forget these things,
For that hour's sake when thou didst wake all powers
With a great cry that God was sick of kings.

Leave thee there grovelling at their rusted greaves,
These hulking cowards on a painted stage,
Who, with imperial pomp and laurel leaves,
Show their Marengo—one man in a cage.

These, for whom stands no type or title given
In all the squalid tales of gore and pelf;
Though cowed by crashing thunders from all heaven,

What could be nicer than the spring,
When little birds begin to sing?
When for my daily walk I go
Through fields that once were white with snow?
When in the green and open spaces
Lie baby lambs with sweet black faces?
What could be finer than to shout
That all the buds are bursting out—
And oh, at last beneath the hill,
To pick a yellow daffodil?

Wha wad na be in love
Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder?
A piper met her gaun to Fife,
And speir'd what was 't they ca'd her;
Right scornfully she answer'd him,
‘Begone, you hallanshaker,
Jog on your gate, you bladderskate,
My name is Maggie Lauder.’

‘Maggie,’ quoth he, ‘and by my bags,
I'm fidging fain to see thee;
Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,
In troth I winna steir thee;
For I'm a piper to my trade,
My name is Rob the Ranter;
The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter.’

‘Piper,’ quoth Meg, ‘Hae you your bags,

Name the thing knowledge—name it liberty—
To me this laughter and light sundering seems
Dark with the dismal anarchy of dreams
Where everything is false and therefore free:
The ringing bird-bolt shot with certainty
Shrieks past exultant as a sea-bird screams;
The thistledown, on every air that streams,
Floats ever in a sad frivolity.

You too that toy with treacheries, you too,
You (if the perfect one should come in power),
Having the terrible human heart within,
The trumpet of the valorous voice in you,

The walls and the dome of the evening
Are walls and a dome as of fire
The grasses are gold and the roses
Dark red as low fires on the brier,
Stir deep, as dim banners and broidered
Bronze forests below and above,
A day dieth happy and kingly,
And two have known love.

Flame, walls of the world as a temple
Gleam fenland and field as a floor
For two have made way through a woodland
And two have ta'en hands at a door
The fields give them fierier petals
The woodlands deep shadows and strong
The world giveth bounty and welcome
And I give a song

Us farmers in the country, as the seasons go and come,
Is purty much like other folks,—we're apt to grumble some!
The Spring's too back'ard fer us, er too for'ard—ary one—
We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none!
The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soil
Too long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil!
The weather's eether most too mild, er too outrageous rough,
And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh!

Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see:

. . . . was broken.
He bade a warrior abandon his horse
And hurry forward to join the fighters,
Take thought to his hands and a stout heart.
Then Offa's kinsmen knew that the eorl
Would never suffer weakness or fear;
And he let from hand his beloved hawk
Fly to the forest, and made haste to the front;
By which one could know the lad would never
Weaken in war when he seized a sword.
Eadric also stood by his lord,
His prince, in the battle; forward he bore
His spear to the fight; he had firm resolve
While he could hold in hard hand-grip

In the ancient Christian ages, while a dreamy faith and wonder
Lingered, like the mystic glamour of the star of Bethlehem,
Dwelt a monk that loved the sea-birds as they wheeled about his chapel,
Loved the dog-rose and the heath-flower as they brushed his garment hem;

Did not claim a ruthless knowledge of the bounds of grace eternal,
Did not say, “Thus far, not further, God has set the hopes of life.”
Only knew that heaven had sent him weaker lives in earth's communion,
Bade him dwell and work amongst them, not in anger nor in strife.

I thank thee, O Lord, for the stones in the street
I thank thee for the hay-carts yonder and for the houses built and half-built
That fly past me as I stride.
But most of all for the great wind in my nostrils
As if thine own nostrils were close.