酷兔英语

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Too rich to be enjoyed.

Or was it our division



Made all my pleasure void?

Across the window glasses



The curtain then I drew,

And, as a sea-bird passes,



In sleep my spirit flew

To grey and windswept grasses



And moonlit sands--and you.

WINTER AT ST. ANDREWS



The city once again doth wear

Her wonted dress of winter's bride,



Her mantle woven of misty air,

With saffron sunlightfaintly dyed.



She sits above the seething tide,

Of all her summer robes forlorn -



And dead is all her summer pride -

The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.



All round, the landscape stretches bare,

The bleak fields lying far and wide,



Monotonous, with here and there

A lone tree on a lone hillside.



No more the land is glorified

With golden gleams of ripening corn,



Scarce is a cheerful hue descried -

The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.



For me, I do not greatly care

Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.



To me the place is thrice as fair

In winter as in summer-tide:



With kindlier memories allied

Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn.



What care I, though the earth may hide

The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn?



Thus I unto my friend replied,

When, on a chill late autumn morn,



He pointed to the tree, and cried,

`The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn!'



PATRIOTISM

There was a time when it was counted high



To be a patriot--whether by the zeal

Of peaceful labour for the country's weal,



Or by the courage in her cause to die:

FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a rallying cry



That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel;

Not to unheeding ears did it appeal,



A pulpitformula, a platform lie.

Only a fool will wantonly desire



That war should come, outpouring blood and fire,

And bringing grief and hunger in her train.



And yet, if there be found no other way,

God send us war, and with it send the day



When love of country shall be real again!

SLEEP FLIES ME



Sleep flies me like a lover

Too eagerly pursued,



Or like a bird to cover

Within some distant wood,



Where thickest boughs roof over

Her secret solitude.



The nets I spread to snare her,

Although with cunning wrought,



Have only served to scare her,

And now she'll not be caught.



To those who best could spare her,

She ever comes unsought.



She lights upon their pillows;

She gives them pleasant dreams,



Grey-green with leaves of willows,

And cool with sound of streams,



Or big with tranquil billows,

On which the starlight gleams.



No vision fair entrances




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