Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . hinnest ? thine or mine ? Thou shalt not be saved by worksThou hast been a sinner too : Ruind trunks on witherd scarecrows, I and you ! Fill the cup, and fill the can :Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man,Every moment one is bom. We are men of ruind blood ; Therefore comes it we are are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy flies. The Vision of Sin. 217 Name and fame ! to fly sublimeThro the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time,Bandied by the hands of fools. Friendship ! — to be two in one —L
Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . hinnest ? thine or mine ? Thou shalt not be saved by worksThou hast been a sinner too : Ruind trunks on witherd scarecrows, I and you ! Fill the cup, and fill the can :Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man,Every moment one is bom. We are men of ruind blood ; Therefore comes it we are are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy flies. The Vision of Sin. 217 Name and fame ! to fly sublimeThro the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time,Bandied by the hands of fools. Friendship ! — to be two in one —Let the canting liar pack!Well I know, when I am gone,How she mouths behind my back. Virtue!—to be good and just —Every heart, when sifted a clot of warmer dust,Mixdwith cunningsparks of hell. O ! we two as well can lookWhited thought andcleanly lifeAs the priest, above his bookLeering at his neighbours wife. Fill the cup, and fill the can ; Have a rouse before the mom :Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is AS THE PRIEST, ABOVE HIS BOOK. The Vision of Sin Drink, and let the parties rave :They are filld with idle spleen ; Rising, falling, like a wave, For they know not what they mean. He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrants power; And the tyrants cruel gleeForces on the freer hour. Fill the can, and fill the cup :All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises is lightly laid again. * Greet her with applausive breath,Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; In her right a civic her left a human head. No, I love not what is new ; She is of an ancient house :And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. Let her go ! her thirst she slakesWhere the bloody conduit runs. Then her sweetest meal she makesOn the first-born of her sons. The Vision of Sin. 219 Drink to lofty hopes that cool — Visions of a perfect State :Drink we, last, the public fool, Frantic love and frantic hate. Chant me now some wicked stave,Till thy drooping
Size: 1178px × 2122px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookauthortennysonalfredtennyso, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890
