Could I dwell here in our proud Island Home,
Preserved by countless victories; made strong
By kings and kingly councillors; enriched
By artisans, whose skill surpassed all men’s;
And by such wondrous song immortalised
It glorifies mankind:  could I dwell here;
Here feed on this accumulated wealth,
Like senseless swine on acorns of the wood,
And own no wish to render thanks in kind? 
Surely there could be found some waste wild flower
To yield one honey-drop that I might drain
To swell the general hive!

At last resolved
Out to its utmost spray my force should strive,
And bring to fruit its yet unopened buds,
I, craving gracious aid of Heaven, straightway
Began the work which shall be mine till death. 
If it be granted me that I disroot
Some evil weeds; or plant a seed, which time
Shall nourish to a tree of pleasant shade,
To wearied limbs a boon, and fair to view;
I then shall know the Hand that struck me down
Has been my guide into the paths of truth.

And She, my lost adored One, where is She? 
Where has She been throughout these dragging years
Of labour?

She has been my light of life! 
The lustrous dawn and radiance of the day
At noon:  and She has burned the colours in
To richer depth across the sun at setting: 
And my tired lids She closes:  then, in dreams,
Descends a shaft of glory barred with stairs
And leads my spirit up where I behold
My dear ones lost.  And thus through sleep, not death,
Remote from earthly cares and vexing jars,
I taste the stillness of the life to come.

What time his scythe in misty summer morns
With cheery ring the mower whets; and kine
Move slowly, breathing sweetness, toward the pail
Their milking-maid is jingling, as she calls
“Hi Strawberry and Blossom, hither Cows;”
While slung against the upland with his team
The ploughman dimly like a phantom glides: 
What time that noisy spot of life, the lark,
Climbs, shrill with ecstasy, the trembling air;
And “Cuckoo, Cuckoo,” baffling whence it comes,
Shouts the blithe egotist who cries himself;
And every hedge and coppice sings:  What time
The lover, restless, through his waking dream,
Nigh wins the hoped-for great unknown delight,
Which never comes to flower, maybe; elsewhere,
The worshipped Maid, a folded rose o’er-rosed
By rosy dawn, asleep lies breathing smiles: 
Then ofttime through the emptied London streets,
When every house is closed and spectral still,
And, save the sparrow chirping from the tower
Where tolls the passing time, all sounds are hushed;
Then walk I pondering on the ways of fate,
And file the past before me in review,
Counting my losses and my treasured gains,
And feel I lost a glory such as man
Can never know but once:  but how there sprung
From out the chastening wear of grief, a scope