I watched old squatting Chimpanzee: he traced
His painful patterns in the dirt: I saw
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Observe these blue solemnities of sky
Offering for the academes of after-ages
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When I have heard small talk about great men
I climb to bed; light my two candles; then
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Derision from the dead
Mocks armamental madness.
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I am that fantasy which race has wrought
Of mundane chance-material. I am time
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This job’s the best I’ve done.’ He bent his head
Over the golden vessel that he’d wrought.
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I watch you, gazing at me from the wall,
And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine,
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My hopes, my messengers I sent
Across the ten years continent
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Cry out on Time that he may take away
Your cold philosophies that give no hint
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When old Noah stared across the floods,
Sky and water melted into one
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When meadows are grey with the morn
In the dusk of the woods it is night:
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Where sunshine flecks the green,
Through towering woods my way
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He staggered in from night and frost and fog
And lampless streets: he’d guzzled like a hog
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I cannot think that Death will press his claim
To snuff you out or put you off your game:
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O beauty doomed and perfect for an hour,
Leaping along the verge of death and night,
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I heard a clash, and a cry,
And a horseman fleeing the wood.
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I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin,
When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked:
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In gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin,
I watch them come; by two, by three, by four,
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Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan,
Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still;
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If you could crowd them into forty lines!
Yes; you can do it, once you get a start;
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They are gathering round....
Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,
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Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
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Dusk in the rain-soaked garden,
And dark the house within.
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Sleep; and my song shall build about your bed
A paradise of dimness. You shall feel
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Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning,—
With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow,
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Some Brave, awake in you to-night,
Knocked at your heart: an eagle’s flight
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Your dextrous wit will haunt us long
Wounding our grief with yesterday.
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I’ve never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years’ bargain for the Golden Fleece.
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Leave not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet,
But pipe me now your roundelay complete.
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You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;
Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;
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