Give us a name to fill the mind
  Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard,
  God said, “I am tired of kings,”—­
  Great Nature had a million words,

Hear a word that Jesus spake Heart of France for a hundred years, Her eyes are like the evening air, Here’s a half-a-dozen flies, Here the great heart of France, Home, for my heart still calls me:  Honour the brave who sleep Hours fly, How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, “How can I tell,” Sir Edmund said, How long is the night, brother, How long the echoes love to play

  I count that friendship little worth
  I envy every flower that blows
  I have no joy in strife,
  I love thine inland seas,
  I never seen no “red gods”; I dunno wot’s a “lure”;
  I never thought again to hear
  I put my heart to school
  I read within a poet’s book
  I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
  I would not even ask my heart to say
  If all the skies were sunshine,
  If I have erred in showing all my heart,
  If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts’ cage: 
  If on the closed curtain of my sight
  In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and
            confusion,
  In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
  In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest,
  In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go,
  In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
  Into the dust of the making of man,
  In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
  It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!)
  It’s little I can tell
  It was my lot of late to travel far

  “Joy is a Duty,”—­so with golden lore
  Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
  Just to give up, and trust

  Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest,

  Let me but do my work from day to day,
  Let me but feel thy look’s embrace,
  “Lights out” along the land,
  Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting,
  Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock,
  Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
  Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds,
  Long had I loved this “Attic shape,” the brede
  Long, long ago I heard a little song,
  Long, long, long the trail
  Lover of beauty, walking on the height
  Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,

  March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! 
  Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,

  Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno,
  Not to the swift, the race: 
  Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,

  O dark the night and dim the day
  O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,
  O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand
  O mighty river! strong, eternal Will,
  O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,
  O Music hast thou only heard
  O who will walk a mile with me