Break, break, break, …
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Where Claribel low-lieth …
Sunset and evening star, …
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud; …
Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood …
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, …
Come into the garden, Maud, …
O that 'twere possible …
I have led her home, my love, my only friend, …
O that ’twere possible …
In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, …
As thro' the land at eve we went, …
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; …
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: …
Home they brought her warrior dead: …
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; …
O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, …
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed, …
Sweet and low, sweet and low, …
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, …
The splendour falls on castle walls …
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, …
Strong Son of God, immortal Love, …
To-night ungather'd let us leave …
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, …
Calm is the morn without a sound, …
Is it, then, regret for buried time …
Contemplate all this work of Time, …
Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun …
That which we dare invoke to bless; …
Love is and was my Lord and King, …
To-night the winds begin to rise …
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones …
The path by which we twain did go, …
I envy not in any moods …
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, …
With trembling fingers did we weave …
Old warder of these buried bones, …
How fares it with the happy dead? …
The baby new to earth and sky, …
I sometimes hold it half a sin …
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good …
The wish, that of the living whole …
When on my bed the moonlight falls, …
Dark house, by which once more I stand …
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, …
Again at Christmas did we weave …
I wage not any feud with Death …
Dip down upon the northern shore …
By night we linger'd on the lawn, …
You say, but with no touch of scorn, …
All along the valley, stream that flashest white, …
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! …
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn: …
With blackest moss the flower-plots …
With one black shadow at its feet, …
Light, so low upon earth, …
O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, …
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd …