At last awake / From life, that insane dream we take / For waking now. |
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, / When you set your fancies free. |
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay. |
Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, / Death ending all with a knife. |
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-tetootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life |
Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed, As God be thanked! I do not |
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, / One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, / One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, / One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! |
Boston's a hole, the herring-pond is wide. |
But all, the world's coarse thumb / And finger failed to plumb, / So passed in making up the main account. |
But facts are facts and flinch not |
But I, not privileged to see a saint / Of old when such walked earth with crown and palm,/ If I call `saint' what saints call something else - / The saints must bear with me. |
But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again. |
By this time he has tested his first plough, / And studied his last chapter of St John. |
Certain slaves / Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; / And (as I gather from a bystander) / Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. |
Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed, / A spittle wiped off from the face of God! |