HER lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell
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A constant keeping-past of shaken trees,
And a bewildered glitter of loose road;
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How sweet a solace is the bridal-bed—
Dawn as prepared, evening as hallowèd
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This word had Merlin said from of old:—
That out of the Oak Tree Shade
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A Sonnet is a moment's monument,—
Memorial from the Soul's eternity
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I marked all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:—
Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;
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As when desire, long darkling, dawns, and first
The mother looks upon the newborn child,
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O thou who at Love's hour ecstatically
Unto my heart dost evermore present,
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When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
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By what word's power, the key of paths untrod,
Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore,
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What smouldering senses in death's sick delay
Or seizure of malign vicissitude
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At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
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To all the spirits of Love that wander by
Along his love-sown harvest-field of sleep
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Some ladies love the jewels in Love's zone,
And gold-tipped darts he hath for painless play
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One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player
Even where my lady and I lay all alone;
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O Lord of all compassionate control,
O Love! let this my lady's picture glow
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Warmed by her hand and shadowed by her hair
As close she leaned and poured her heart through thee,
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She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
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The lilies stand before her like a screen
Through which, upon this warm and solemn day,
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I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for
the testimony which they held; and they cried with a loud voice, saying,
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The city's steeple-towers remove away,
Each singly; as each vain infatuate Faith
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On landing, the first voice one hears is from
An English police-constable; a man
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I climbed the stair in Antwerp church,
What time the circling thews of sound
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We are upon the Scheldt. We know we move
Because there is a floating at our eyes
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It is grey tingling azure overhead
With silver drift. Beneath, where from the green
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The turn of noontide has begun.
In the weak breeze the sunshine yields.
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So then, the name which travels side by side
With English life from childhood—Waterloo—
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Upon a Flemish road, when noon was deep,
I passed a little consecrated shrine,
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October, and eleven after dark:
Both mist and night. Among us in the coach
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Love hath a chamber all of imagery;
And there is one dim nook,
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