Robert Laurence Binyon

Robert Laurence Binyon

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Robert Laurence Binyon, CH (10 August 1869 – 10 March 1943) was an English poet, dramatist and art scholar. Born in Lancaster, England, his parents were Frederick Binyon, a clergyman, and Mary Dockray.
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In a vision of the night I saw them,
In the battles of the night
'Mid the roar and the reeling shadows of blood They were moving like light,
Light of the reason, guarded Tense within the will,
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ME then, as ever, like the wind at morning
Joyous,
O Youth, in the aged world
Freshness to feel the eternities around it,  Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew
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High on the mountain, shrouded in vast trees,
The stillness had the chastity of frost
I trod the fallen pallors of the moon
The path was paven stone:
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Of the old house, only a few, crumbled Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,
Or a shaped stone lying mossy where it tumbled
Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock What once was fire-lit floor and private charm,
Whence, s...
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No, though our all be spent— Heart's extremest love,
Spirit's whole intent,
All that nerve can feel,
All that brain invent,— Still beyond appeal Will Divine Desire Yet more excellent Precious cost require Of this mortal stuff,— Neve...
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A far look in absorbed eyes, unaware Of what some gazer thrills to gather there;
A happy voice, singing to itself apart,
That pulses new blood through a listener's heart;
Old fortitude; and, 'mid an hour of dread,
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The winds of all the world bring agonies,
Day by day, hour by hour, into our ears;
Not only desolation, blood, and tears,
But cloud on cloud of suffocating lies
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I know that there are slumbrous woods beyond On islands of white marges, where the tide Floods upward, blue as a kingfisher's wing,
And sails, like wishes of a reverie,
Shine to the wind that fills them, far inland
I know that there...
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She was a city of patience; of proud name,
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss
But on a sudden fierce destruction came Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame Showered on her street...
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Now in thy splendour go before us
Spirit of England, ardent-eyed,
Enkindle this dear earth that bore
In the hour of peril purified
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The rain was ending, and
Lifting the leaden skies
It shone upon ceiling and
And dazzled a child's eyes
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What is lovelier than rain that lingers Falling through the western light
The light that's red between my fingers Bathes infinite heaven's remotest height
Whither will the cloud its darkness carry Whose trembling drops about me spill
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I Now is the time for the burning of the leaves
They go to the fire; the nostril pricks with smoke Wandering slowly into a weeping mist
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves
A flame seizes the smouldering ruin and bites On...
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In the high leaves of a walnut,
On the very topmost boughs,
A boy that climbed the branching bole His cradled limbs would house
On the airy bed that rocked him Long, idle hours he'd lie Alone with white clouds sailing The warm blue ...
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Trefoil and Quatrefoil
What shaped those destinied small silent
Or numbered them under the soil
I lift my dazzled
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With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free
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