Fear poems

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By The Seaside : The Building Of The Ship

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  On the deck another bride
  Is standing by her lover's side.
  Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
  Like the shadows cast by clouds,
  Broken by many a sunny fleck,
  Fall around them on the deck.

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A Servant When He Reigneth

© Rudyard Kipling

Three things make earth unquiet

And four she cannot brook

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A Child's Battles

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

Praise of the knights of old
May sleep: their tale is told,
  And no man cares:
The praise which fires our lips is
A knight's whose fame eclipses
  All of theirs.

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Chaste Florimel

© Matthew Prior

No - I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.

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The Man of Sentiment

© Kenneth Slessor

Part One
[A walled garden of York. It is an August Sunday, and the baying of deep church-bells is blown faintly in a warm wind. Laurence Sterne, prebendary, aged forty-six, and Catherine de Fromantel, a girl who sings at Ranelagh, are dawdling through the arbours, and pause at a path which runs between hedges and cypress-trees round a corner some fifty yards away. Catherine has walked down such a path before, it is to be feared, and halts cautiously upon its fringes.]
Laurence:
Nay, 'tis no Devil's walk,

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Homer's Battle Of The Frogs And Mice. Book III

© Thomas Parnell

But down Olympus to the Western Seas,
Far-shooting Phœbus drove with fainter Rays,
And a whole War (so Jove ordain'd) begun,
Was fought, and ceas'd, in one revolving Sun.

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Peter Bell The Third

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all-damned!
Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth.

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Marmion: Canto III. - The Inn

© Sir Walter Scott

I.

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode:

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Sangar

© John Reed

Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came.
Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds,
And God the Father healed him of despair,
And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed….

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The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Fifth

© William Wordsworth

HIGH on a point of rugged ground
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,

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The Willow-Tree

© William Makepeace Thackeray

Domine, Domine!
 Sing we a litany,—
Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary;
 Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,
 Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!

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The Stars

© Felicia Dorothea Hemans


NO cloud obscures the summer sky,
The moon in brightness walks on high,
And, set in azure, every star
Shines, like a gem of heaven, afar!

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Queen Mary’s Letter To Bothwell

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Pitiful gods! Have pity on my passion.
Teach me the road how I a certain proving
Shall make to him I love of my great loving,
My faith unchanged, nor plead it in fool's fashion.

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Griselda: A Society Novel In Verse - Chapter II

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

'Twas thus she comforted her soul. And then,
She had found a friend, a phoenix among men,
Which made it easier to compound with life,
Easier to be a woman and a wife.

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Charleston Retaken. Dec. 14, 1782

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

AS some half-vanquished lion,
Who long hath kept at bay
A band of sturdy foresters
Barring his blood-stained way--

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The Christmas Homes Of England

© Caroline Hayward

The Christmas homes of England!
  How far-famed and how dear;
  In bright array they ever stand,
  That glad day of the year;

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Pharsalia - Book IX: Cato

© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus

Such were the words he spake; and soon the fleet
Had dared the angry deep: but Cato's voice
While praising, calmed the youthful chieftain's rage.

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Martha

© Robert Laurence Binyon

A woman sat, with roses red
Upon her lap before her spread,
On that high bridge whose parapet
Wide over turbulent Thames is set,

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On Leaving Italy, For The Summer, On Account Of Health

© Richard Monckton Milnes

Thou summer--land! that dost put on the sun
Not as a dress of pomp occasional,
But as thy natural and most fitting one,--
Yet still thy Beauty has its festival,

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The Empty Glass

© Henry Lawson

THERE ARE three lank bards in a borrowed room—

  Ah! The number is one too few—