Shakespeare and Milton-what third blazoned name
Shall lips of after-ages link to these?
His who, beside the wide encircling seas,
Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim,
For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame,
Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities.

As A Strong Bird On Pinious Free

© Walt Whitman

. As a strong bird on pinions free,
Joyous, the amplest spaces heavenward cleaving,
Such be the thought I'd think to-day of thee, America,
Such be the recitative I'd bring to-day for thee.

Holy Sonnet VI: This Is My Playes Last Scene

© John Donne

This is my play's last scene, here heavens appoint

My pilgrimages last mile; and my race

My Lady's Grave

© Emily Jane Brontë

THE linnet in the rocky dells,
The moor-lark in the air,
The bee among the heather bells
That hide my lady fair:

The Beekeeper's Daughter

© Sylvia Plath

A garden of mouthings. Purple, scarlet-speckled, black
The great corollas dilate, peeling back their silks.
Their musk encroaches, circle after circle,
A well of scents almost too dense to breathe in.
Hieratical in your frock coat, maestro of the bees,
You move among the many-breasted hives,

His Youth

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.

To the Moon [Earlier Version]

WITH silent step behold her steal

Over those envious clouds that hid

A Poetical Version Of A Letter From Facob Behmen

© John Byrom

TIS Mans own Nature, which in its own Life,

Or Centre, stands in Enmity and Strife,

Andante Con Moto

Forth from the dust and din,

The crush, the heat, the many-spotted glare,

The Bondman

© Anonymous

Feebly the bondman toiled,

Sadly he wept-

A Soldier's Grave

Then in the lull of midnight, gentle arms
Lifted him slowly down the slopes of death
Lest he should hear again the mad alarms
Of battle, dying moans, and painful breath.