I take no shame that still I sing the rose
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And the young moon, and Helen's face and spring;
And strive to fill my song with sound of streams
Choosing some beautiful eternal thing,
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That ever comes like April—and ever goes.
I have no envy of those dusty themes
Born of the sweat and clamour of the hour—
Dust unto dust returning—nor any shame have I,
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'Mid sack of towns, to ponder on a flower:
For still the sorrow of Troy-town is mine,
And the great Hector scarce is dead an hour.
All heroes, and all lovers, that came to die
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Make pity's eyes with grief immortal shine;
Yea! still my cheeks are wet
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And many a broken-hearted lover's tale,
Nor have I shame to strive the ancient way,
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With rhyme that runs to meet its sister rhyme,
Or in some metre that hath learnt from Time
These ways are not more old
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Than the unmeditated modern lay,
And all those little heresies of song
Already old when Homer still was young.