The indefensible impulse of my blood Surrounds me sleeping in this isle; and I Behold rain falling and the rainbow drawn On Lammermuir; and hearkening heard again In my precipitous city, beaten bells Winnow the keen sea wind. So this I wrote Of my own race and place: which being done Take thou the writing: True it is, for who Burnished the sword, breathed on the damp coal. Held still the target higher, chary of praise And prodigal of censure -- who but thou? So now, in the end, if this the least be well, If any deed be done, if any fire Live in the imperfect page, the praise be thine! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STIRRUP-CUP by LOUIS UNTERMEYER LYRICS TO IANTHE (2). LAMENT by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE HAYLOFT by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! by WALT WHITMAN A SISTER OF SORROW: 3. WEDDING-EVE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY KING EDWARD VII by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 24 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |