Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
  Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
  Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns,
  And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
  Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.” 
  So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
  Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
  That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
  Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
  With swarthy webs.  Long stood Sir Bedivere
  Revolving many memories, till the hull
  Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
  And on the mere the wailing died away.

BUGLE SONG.

[From The Princess.]

      The splendour falls on castle walls
        And snowy summits old in story: 
      The long light shakes across the lakes
        And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
  Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
  Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

      O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
        And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
      O sweet and far from cliff and scar
        The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
  Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
  Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

      O love, they die in yon rich sky,
        They faint on hill or field or river: 
      Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
        And grow for ever and for ever. 
  Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
  And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

  Break, break, break
    On thy cold gray stones, O sea! 
  And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

  O well for the fisherman’s boy,
    That he shouts with his sister at play! 
  O well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay!

  And the stately ships go on
    To their haven under the hill;
  But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
    And the sound of a voice that is still!

  Break, break, break
    At the foot of thy crags, O sea! 
  But the tender grace of a day that is dead
    Will never come back to me.

PEACE OR WAR?

[From Maud.]

  Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,
    When the poor are hovelled and hustled together, each sex, like swine,
  When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;
    Peace in her vineyard—­yes!—­but a company forges the wine.

  And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head,
    Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,
  While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,
    And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.