Society and the World

For he might have been a Roosian, A French or Turk or Proosian, Or perhaps Itali-an. But in spite of all temptations To belong to other nations, He remains an Englishman.

He is an Englishman! For he himself has said it, And it’s greatly to his credit, That he is an Englishman!

Stick close to your desks and never go to sea, And you all may be Rulers of the Queen’s Navee!

When I was a lad I served a term As office boy to an Attorney’s firm. I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor And I polished up the handle of the big front door. I polished up that handle so carefullee That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

“What’s the good of Mercator’s North Poles and Equators, Tropics, Zones and Meridian Lines?” So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply, “They are merely conventional signs!”

Until the Desert knows That Water grows His Sands suffice But let him once suspect That Caspian Fact Sahara dies.

I thought that nature was enough Till Human nature came But that the other did absorb As Parallax a Flame—

We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise And then, if we are true to plan Our statures touch the skies.

I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered— Brazil? He twirled a Button— Without a glance my way— “But—Madam—is there nothing else— That We can show—Today?”

Much Madness is divinest Sense— To a discerning Eye— Much Sense—the starkest Madness— ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail— Assent—and you are sane— Demur—you’re straightway dangerous— And handled with a Chain.

Except Thyself may be Thine Enemy— Captivity is Consciousness— So’s Liberty.

No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—

Cynicism is intellectual dandyism.

No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.

That sweet city [Oxford] with her dreaming spires.

Oh, born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o’ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife.

So, loath to suffer mute, We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear.

We do not what we ought; What we ought not, we do; And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through.

Be neither saint- nor sophist-led, but be a man!

Be neither saint- nor sophist-led, but be a man!

Calm Soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city’s jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and can not mar.

Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful: The seeds of godlike power are in us still: Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will.

What is that sad, dark island?—It is Cythera, They tell us, a country famous in song, Banal Eldorado of all the old bachelors. Look! after all, it is a poor land! 8

The poet is like the prince of the clouds Who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer; Exiled on the ground in the midst of jeers, His giant wings prevent him from walking. 1