It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’