Power and Conflict

• Ozymandias


  I met a traveller from an antique land

  Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

  Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

  Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

  And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
• Ozymandias


  Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

  Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

  The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

  And on the pedestal these words appear:
• Ozymandias

  'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

  Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

  Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

  Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

  The lone and level sands stretch far away.
• London


  I wander through each chartered street,

  Near where the chartered Thames does flow,

  And mark in every face i meet

  Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
• London


  In every cry of every man,

  In every infant's cry of fear,

  In every voice, in every ban,

  The mind-forged manacles I hear:
• London


  How the chimney-sweeper's cry

  Every black'ning church appalls,

  And the hapless soldier's sigh

  Runs in blood down palace walls.
• London


  But most through midnight streets I hear

  How the youthful harlot's curse

  Blasts the new-born infant's tear,

  And blights with plagues the marriage hearse
• The Prelude


  One summer evening (led by her) I found

  A little boat tied to a willow tree

  Within a rocky cove, its usual home

  Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
• The Prelude


  Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth

  And troubled pleasure, nor without voice

  Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;

  Leaving behind her still, on either side,
• The Prelude

  Small circles glittering idly in the moon

  Until they melted all into one track

  Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,

  Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
• The Prelude

  With an unswerving line, I fixed my view

  Upon the summit of a craggy ridge

  The horizon's utmost boundary; far above

  Was nothing but stars and the grey sky.
• The Prelude

  She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

  I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

  And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat

  Went heaving through the water like a swan;
• The Prelude

  When, from behind that craggy steep till then

  The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

  As if with voluntary power instinct,

  Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
• The Prelude


  And growing still in stature the grim shape

  Towered up between me and the stars, and still,

  For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

  And measured motion like a living thing,
• The Prelude

  Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

  And through the silent water stole my way

  Back to the covert of the willow tree;

  There in her mooring-place I left my mark, -
• The Prelude


  And through the meadows homeward I went, in grave

  And serious mood; but after I had seen

  That spectacle, for many days, my brain

  Worked with dim and undetermined sense
• The Prelude


  Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts

  There hung a darkness, call it solitude

  Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

  Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
• The Prelude

  
  

  Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

  But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

  Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

  By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
• My Last Duchess


  That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

  Looking as if she were alive. I call

  That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands

  Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
• My Last Duchess


  Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

  'Fra Pandolf' by design, for never read

  Strangers like you that pictured countenance

  The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
• My Last Duchess


  But to myself they turned (since none puts by

  The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

  And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

  How such a glance came there; so, not the first
• My Last Duchess

  Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir 'twas not

  Her husband's presence only, called that spot

  Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

  Fra Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps
• My Last Duchess

  Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint

  Must never hope to reproduce the faint

  Half-flush that dies along her throat': such stuff

  Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
• My Last Duchess


  For calling up that spot of joy. She had

  A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad,

  Too easily impressed; she liked wha'ever

  She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
• My Last Duchess


  Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

  The dropping of the daylight in the West,

  The bough of cherries some officious fool

  Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
• My Last Duchess


  She rode with round the terrace - all and each

  Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

  Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked

  Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
• My Last Duchess


  My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

  With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

  This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

  In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
• My Last Duchess


  Quite clear to such an one, and say ' Just this

  Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

  Or there exceed the mark' - and if she let

  Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
• My Last Duchess


  Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

  -E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

  Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

  Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
• My Last Duchess


  Much the same smile? This grew; I have commands;

  Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

  As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

  The company below, then. I repeat,
• My Last Duchess


  The Count your master's known munificence

  Is ample warrant that no just pretence

  Of mine dowry will be disallowed;

  Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
• My Last Duchess


  At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

  Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

  Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

  Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
• Exposure


  Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us...

  Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent...

  Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient...

  Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous

  But nothing happens.
• Exposure


  Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,

  Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.

  Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,

  Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.

  What are we doing here?
• Exposure


  The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow...

  We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.

  Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army

  Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,

  But nothing happens.
• Exposure


  Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.

  Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,

  With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew,

  We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,

  But nothing happens.
• Exposure


  Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces -

  We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,

  Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,

  Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.

  -Is it that we are dying?
• Exposure


  Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed

  With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;

  For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;

  Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed, -

  We turn back to our dying.
• Exposure


  Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;

  Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.

  For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;

  Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,

  For love of God seems dying.
• Exposure


  Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,

  Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp.

  The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp,

  Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,

  But nothing happens.