And if my bubbles be too small for you, Blow bigger then your own: the games we play To fill the frittered minutes of a day, Good glasses are to read the spirit through.
And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;And some unprofitable scorn resign, To praise the very thing that he deplores;So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, The shame I win for singing is all mine, The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.
The Story of the Ashes and the FlameNo matter why, nor whence, nor when she came, There was her place.No matter what men said, No matter what she was; living or dead, Faithful or not, he loved her all the same.
The story was as old as human shame, But ever since that lonely night she fled, With books to blind him, he had only read The story of the ashes and the flame.
There she was always coming pretty soon To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes That had in them the laughter of the moon For baffled lovers, and to make him think --Before she gave him time enough to wink --Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise.
For Some Poems by Matthew ArnoldSweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, And brings their crystal cadence back once more To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore Of heroes and the men that long before Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.
Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray --For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms;And still does art's imperial vista show, On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.