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Dear friends


		Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,
		Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say
		That I am wearing half my life away
		For bubble-work that only fools pursue.
		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.







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The story of the ashes and the flame


		No 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
		Her kisses were the keys to Paradise.




    


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On the night of a friends wedding


		If ever I am old, and all alone,
		I shall have killed one grief, at any rate;
		For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait
		Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown.
		The devil only knows what I have done,
		But here I am, and here are six or eight
		Good friends, who most ingenuously prate
		About my songs to such and such a one.

		But everything is all askew to-night,
		As if the time were come, or almost come,
		For their untenanted mirage of me
		To lose itself and crumble out of sight,
		Like a tall ship that floats above the foam
		A little while, and then breaks utterly.




    


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The house on the hill


		They are all gone away,
		The House is shut and still,
		There is nothing more to say.

		Through broken walls and gray
		The winds blow bleak and shrill:
		They are all gone away.

		Nor is there one to-day
		To speak them good or ill:
		There is nothing more to say.

		Why is it then we stray
		Around the sunken sill?
		They are all gone away,

		And our poor fancy-play
		For them is wasted skill:
		There is nothing more to say.

		There is ruin and decay
		In the House on the Hill:
		They are all gone away,
		There is nothing more to say.




  


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Luke Havergal


		Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
		There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
		And in the twilight wait for what will come.
		The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
		Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
		But go, and if you listen she will call.
		Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal
		Luke Havergal.

		No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
		To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
		But there, where western glooms are gathering,
		The dark will end the dark, if anything:
		God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
		And hell is more than half of paradise.
		No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
		In eastern skies.

		Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
		Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
		That flames upon your forehead with a glow
		That blinds you to the way that you must go.
		Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
		Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
		Out of a grave I come to tell you this
		To tell you this.

		There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
		There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
		Go, for the winds are tearing them away,
		Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
		Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
		But go, and if you trust her she will call.
		There is the western gate, Luke Havergal
		Luke Havergal.




 


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The clerks


		I did not think that I should find them there
		When I came back again; but there they stood,
		As in the days they dreamed of when young blood
		Was in their cheeks and women called them fair.
		Be sure, they met me with an ancient air,
		And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood
		About them; but the men were just as good,
		And just as human as they ever were.

		And you that ache so much to be sublime,
		And you that feed yourselves with your descent,
		What comes of all your visions and your fears?
		Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time,
		Tiering the same dull webs of discontent,
		Clipping the same sad alnage of the years.







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The world


		Some are the brothers of all humankind,
		And own them, whatsoever their estate;
		And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind
		With enmity for man's unguarded fate.

		For some there is a music all day long
		Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad;
		And there is hell's eternal under-song
		Of curses and the cries of men gone mad.

		Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous,
		Some say't were better back to chaos hurled;
		And so't is what we are that makes for us
		The measure and the meaning of the world.







		      
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Charles Carvilles eyes


		A melancholy face Charles Carville had,
		But not so melancholy as it seemed,
		When once you knew him, for his mouth redeemed
		His insufficient eyes, forever sad:
		In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad,
		Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed;
		His mouth was all of him that ever beamed,
		His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad.

		He never was a fellow that said much,
		And half of what he did say was not heard
		By many of us: we were out of touch
		With all his whims and all his theories
		Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his
		Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word.




  


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Athertons gambit


		The Master played the bishop's pawn,
		For jest, while Atherton looked on;
		The master played this way and that,
		And Atherton, amazed thereat,
		Said "Now I have a thing in view
		That will enlighten one or two,
		And make a difference or so
		In what it is they do not know."

		The morning stars together sang
		And forth a mighty music rang
		Not heard by many, save as told
		Again through magic manifold
		By such a few as have to play
		For others, in the Master's way,
		The music that the Master made
		When all the morning stars obeyed.

		Atherton played the bishop's pawn
		While more than one or two looked on;
		Atherton played this way and that,
		And many a friend, amused thereat,
		Went on about his business
		Nor cared for Atherton the less;
		A few stood longer by the game,
		With Atherton to them the same.

		The morning stars are singing still,
		To crown, to challenge, and to kill;
		And if perforce there falls a voice
		On pious ears that have no choice
		Except to urge an erring hand
		To wreak its homage on the land,
		Who of us that is worth his while
		Will, if he listen, more than smile?

		Who of us, being what he is,
		May scoff at others' ecstasies?
		However we may shine to-day,
		More-shining ones are on the way;
		And so it were not wholly well
		To be at odds with Azrael,
		Nor were it kind of any one
		To sing the end of Atherton.




 


		   
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Ballade of a ship


		Down by the flash of the restless water
		The dim White Ship like a white bird lay;
		Laughing at life and the world they sought her,
		And out she swung to the silvering bay.
		Then off they flew on their roystering way,
		And the keen moon fired the light foam flying
		Up from the flood where the faint stars play,
		And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.

		'T was a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter,
		And full three hundred beside, they say,
		Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter
		So soon to seize them and hide them for aye;
		But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay,
		Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying
		Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray
		Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.

		Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her
		(This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey:
		The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her,
		And hurled her down where the dead men stay.
		A torturing silence of wan dismay
		Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying




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