Obrazy na stronie

But that there rose a shout: the gates were closed
At sundown, and the crowd were swarming now,
To take their leave, about the garden rails.
And I and some went out, and mingled with them.
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood,
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks,
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd
No little lily-handed Baronet he,
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman,
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep,
A raiser of huge melons and of pine,
A patron of some thirty charities,
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain,
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none;
Fair-hair’d and redder than a windy morn;
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those
That stood the nearest—now address'd to speech –
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year

To follow: a shout arose again, and made

The long line of the approaching rookery swerve
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout
More joyful than the city-roar that hails
Premier or king! Why don't these acred Sirs
Throw up their parks some dozen times a year
And let the people breathe So thrice they cried,

I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away.

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, So much the gathering darkness charm'd : we sat Saying little, rapt in nameless reverie, Perchance upon the future man: the walls Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd, And gradually the powers of the night, That range above the region of the wind, Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds,

Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.


Last little Lilia, rising without sound, Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph

From those rich silks, and home well-pleased we went.


Will leave her field to burgeon and to bloom
From all within her, make herself her own
To give or keep, to live and learn and be
All that not harms distinctive womanhood.
For woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse: could we make her as the man,
Sweet love were slain, whose dearest bond is this
Not like to thee, but like in difference:
Yet in the long years liker must they grow;
The man be more of woman, she of man ;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care:
More as the double-natured Poet each :
Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music unto noble words; ,
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,
sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers,
Dipensing harvest, sowing the To-be,

Self-reverent each and reverencing each,

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