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Página 164 - Or ever the knightly years were gone, With the old world to the grave, I was a king in Babylon, And you were a Christian slave.
Página 253 - 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 119 - Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate...
Página 194 - Calls to his millions to behold and see How goodly this his London Town can be ! For earth and sky and air Are golden everywhere, And golden with a gold so suave and fine The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
Página 161 - A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies ; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing...
Página 253 - 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, England Down' the years on your bugles blown?
Página 13 - The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes ; The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies ; The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace. These thirty years has she been nursing here, Some of them under SYME, her hero still. Much is she worth, and even more is made of her. Patients and students hold her very dear. The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill. They say ' The Chief ' himself is half-afraid of her.
Página 209 - 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?
Página 196 - Fiend, the abominable — The hangman wind that tortures temper and light — Comes slouching, sullen and obscene, Hard on the skirts of the embittered night : And in a cloud unclean Of excremental humours, roused to strife By the operation of some ruinous change Wherever his evil mandate run and range Into a dire intensity of life, A craftsman at his bench, he settles down To the grim job of throttling London Town.
Página 123 - Fill a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live. Yet again! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met. All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death.