Food poems

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Lancan vei per mei la landa

© Bernard de Ventadorn

Si.l reis engles e.l ducs  normans
o vol, eu la veira abans
que l'iverns nos sobreprenda.

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Impartiality

© James Russell Lowell

I cannot say a scene is fair
Because it is beloved of thee
But I shall love to linger there,
For sake of thy dear memory;
I would not be so coldly just
As to love only what I must.

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Abhangs (A Short Collection)

© Sant Tukaram

I was sleeping when Namdeo and Vitthal Stepped into my dream.
"Your job is to make poems. Stop wasting time," Namdeo said.
Vitthal gave me the measure and gently aroused me from a dream inside a dream.
Namdeo vowed to write one billion poems.
"Tuka, all the unwritten ones are your responsibility."

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I

© Louise Labe

Not Ulysses, no, nor any other man

however astute his mind, ever longed for

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Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Knowledge. Book I.

© Matthew Prior

But, O! ere yet original man was made,
Ere the foundations of this earth were laid,
It was opponent to our search ordain'd,
That joy still sought should never be attain'd:
This sad experience cites me to reveal,
And what I dictate is from what I feel.

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How Robin and His Outlaws Lived in The Woods

© James Henry Leigh Hunt

Robin and his merry men
: Lived just like the birds;
They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,
: And whistles and songs as words.

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The Passing Strange

© John Masefield

Out of the earth to rest or range
Perpetual in perpetual change,
The unknown passing through the strange.

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The Everlasting Mercy

© John Masefield

Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys cleer,
Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,
Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,
For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.
John Lydgate.

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No One Ever Comes

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

Eupatius said: "I am famous for my hospitality.
I am bored. My thoughts are disturbing me.
No one ever comes to this place."

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Sonnets XLIX: L: LI: LII: Willowwood

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I

I sat with Love upon a woodside well,

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The Stones

© Sylvia Plath

This is the city where men are mended.
I lie on a great anvil.
The flat blue sky-circle

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Ode To The Philistines

© George Essex Evans

  Six days shalt thou swindle and lie!
  On the seventh—tho’ it soundeth odd—
  In the odour of sanctity
  Thou shalt offer the Lord, thy God,
A threepenny bit, a doze, a start, and an unctuous smile,
And a hurried prayer to prosper another six days of guile.

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To Venus

© Beaumont and Fletcher

O divine star of Heaven,

Thou in power above the seven;

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Chiang Chin Chiu

© Li Po

See the waters of the Yellow River leap down from Heaven, Roll away to the deep sea and never turn again! See at the mirror
in the High Hall Aged men bewailing white locks - In the morning, threads of silk, In the evening flakes of snow. Snatch the joys
of life as they come and use them to the full; Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon. The things that Heaven made
Man was meant to use; A thousand guilders scattered to the wind may come back again. Roast mutton and sliced beef will only

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Elegy XV. In Memory of a Private Family in Worcestershire

© William Shenstone

From a lone tower, with reverend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awaked a tender sigh;
Still, as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from every eye.

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Freedoms Plow

© Langston Hughes

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

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Dire Cure

© William Matthews

"First, do no harm," the Hippocratic
Oath begins, but before she might enjoy
such balm, the docs had to harm her tumor.
It was large, rare, and so anomalous

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Ugolino

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

Now had the loophole of that dungeon, still
Which bears the name of Famine's Tower from me,
And where ’tis fit that many another will

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On Westwell Downes

© William Strode

When Westwell Downes I gan to tread,
Where cleanely wynds the greene did sweepe,
Methought a landskipp there was spread,
Here a bush and there a sheepe:

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On The Death Of Sir Thomas Lea

© William Strode

You that affright with lamentable notes
The servants from their beef, whose hungry throats
Vex the grume porter's surly conscience:
That blesse the mint for coyning lesse than pence: