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Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with
I have not made the world, and He that made it
Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland
Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace
be my lot,
Far-off from the clamour of liars belied in the
hubbub of lies;
From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are
ever hissing dispraise
Because their natures are little, and, whether he
heed it or not,
Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of
And most of all would I flee from the cruel
madness of love,
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measure
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet
for a wife.
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image
in marble above;
Your father is ever in London, you wander about
at your will; You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the
lilies of life.
A VOICE by the cedar tree,
In the meadow under the Hall !
She is singing an air that is known to me,
To the death, for their native land.
Maud with her exquisite face,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base.
Silence, beautiful voice!
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
Still! I will hear you no more,
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
MORNING arises stormy and pale,
No sun, but a wannish glare
I had fancied it would be fair.
Whom but Maud should I meet
Last night, when the sunset burn'd
On the blossom'd gable-ends
At the head of the village street,