Good poems

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Jerusalem Delivered - Book 05 - part 05

© Torquato Tasso

LXV

But yet all ways the wily witch could find

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Hermann And Dorothea - III. Thalia

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

THE BURGHERS.

THUS did the prudent son escape from the hot conversation,

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Sonnet XXXVI

© William Shakespeare

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.

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Sonnet XXVI

© William Shakespeare

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:

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A Song Of "Twenty-Nine"

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

THE summer dawn is breaking

On Auburn's tangled bowers,

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Sonnet XXIV

© William Shakespeare

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.

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On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield, 1770

© Phillis Wheatley

  Great Countess, we Americans revere
Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;
New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,
Their more than father will no more return.

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The Pastoral Letter

© John Greenleaf Whittier

So, this is all, — the utmost reach
Of priestly power the mind to fetter!
When laymen think, when women preach,
A war of words, a "Pastoral Letter!"

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Italy : 20. Marcolini

© Samuel Rogers

It was midnight; the great clock had struck, and was
still echoing through every porch and gallery in the
quarter of St. Mark, when a young Citizen, wrapped
in his cloak, was hastening home under it from an interview

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Sonnet XLVII

© William Shakespeare

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,

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How Do You Buy Your Money?

© Edgar Albert Guest

How do you buy your money? For money is bought and sold,
And each man barters himself on earth for his silver and shining gold,
And by the bargain he makes with men, the sum of his life is told.

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Sonnet XIV

© William Shakespeare

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;

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Sonnet XCVI

© William Shakespeare

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.

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At the Grave by Jonathan Greene: American Life in Poetry #2 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

Many of us have felt helpless when we've tried to assist friends who are dealing with the deaths of loved ones. Here the Kentucky poet and publisher, Jonathan Greene, conveys that feeling of inadequacy in a single sentence. The brevity of the poem reflects the measured and halting speech of people attempting to offer words of condolence:

At the Grave

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" by Alfred Austin">The Reply Of Q. Horatius Flaccus To A Roman "Round-Robin"

© Alfred Austin

Good friends, you urge my Odes grow trite,
And that of worthless station,
Of fleeting youth and joy, I write
With endless iteration.

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A Little Scraping

© Robinson Jeffers

True, the time, to one who does not love farce,

And if misery must be prefers it nobler, shows apparent vices;

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Sonnet LXXXV

© William Shakespeare

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.

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A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - June

© George MacDonald

1.

FROM thine, as then, the healing virtue goes

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The Two Graves

© William Cullen Bryant

  Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones,
Rose over the place that held their bones;
But the grassy hillocks are levelled again,
And the keenest eye might search in vain,
'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep,
For the spot where the aged couple sleep.

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Sonnet LXXX

© William Shakespeare

O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!