But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave. |
But he is risen, a later star of dawn. |
But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things. |
But man is thy most awful instrument In working out a pure intent. |
But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! |
But, why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? |
but(for) she is in her grave - and, oh, the difference to me |
By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. |
Characters of the great Apocalypse,/ The types and symbols of Eternity,/ Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. |
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech. |
Come forth into the light of things; Let nature be your Teacher. |
Continuous as the stars that shine/ And twinkle on the milky way. |
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! |
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. |
Drink, pretty creature, drink! |