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Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;Within thy caves my Lover lies;
And day and night alike shall fail,
Ere slumber lock my streaming eyes.The dews are brighter for her love-bright eyes
And the air sweeter for the soul that liesOh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!'Stand waiting, waiting under skies
That blow reproach, the while I see
The rooks sheer off to where he liesWith stars behind his eyes,
And hair like metal in the sun,
And lips too warm for lies.I kiss the eyes
On either lid,
Where her love liesExcept by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.And have no being. But if Tyndall lies,
Why, come, then-photograph my lady's eyes.Posterity with all its eyes
Will come and view him where he lies.Strange the world about me lies,
Never yet familiar grown-
Still disturbs me with surprise,A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,On yonder island, not to rise,
Never to stir forth free,
Far from his folk a dead lad liesAll ye bright armies of the skies,
Go, worship where the Savior lies;When the lad for longing sighs,
Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
If at death's own door he lies,Arise, arise!
The night-dew liesUnwelcome is the Sun that pries
Into those shades where sorrow lies.But sating Time with clouds o'ercast their eyes;
Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies.and not the lies
You may wear your disguiseThe Duke, though knave, still brother dear he cries
And who can say the reverend Prelate lies?