Great poems

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The Light Wraps You

© Pablo Neruda

The light wraps you in its mortal flame.
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way
against the old propellers of the twighlight
that revolves around you.

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XVII (Thinking, Tangling Shadows...)

© Pablo Neruda

Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.

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Instability of Human Greatness

© Phineas Fletcher

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness,

And here long seeks what here is never found!

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Tonight I Can Write

© Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

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Walking Around

© Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

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The Seeking Of Content

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

Sweet Content, at the rich man's gate,

Called, "Wilt thou let me in?"

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Vision Of Columbus - Book 1

© Joel Barlow

Oh, lend thy friendly shroud to veil my sight,
That these pain'd eyes may dread no more the light,
These welcome shades conclude my instant doom,
And this drear mansion moulder to a tomb

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In Age

© William Lisle Bowles

And art thou he, now "fallen on evil days,"
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,--

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Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803

© William Wordsworth

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest;
 This corner is your own.

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A Part of an Ode

© Benjamin Jonson

to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

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Wagner

© Rupert Brooke

Creeps in half wanton, half asleep,
One with a fat wide hairless face.
He likes love-music that is cheap;
Likes women in a crowded place;
 And wants to hear the noise they're making.

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The Missionary - Canto Third

© William Lisle Bowles

Come,--for the sun yet hangs above the bay,--

  And whilst our time may brook a brief delay

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Reply to Comrade Guo Moruo 1963

© Mao Zedong

On this tiny globe

A few flies dash themselves against the wall,

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To The Memory Of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare, And What He Hath Left Us

© Benjamin Jonson

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.

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The Princess (prologue)

© Alfred Tennyson

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day

Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun

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Goodbye

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

And so goodbye, my love, my dear, and so goodbye,

E'en thus from my sad heart go hence, depart;

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Horace, Lib. I, Epist. IX, Imitated

© Matthew Prior

From this wild fancy, sir, there may proceed
One wilder yet, which I foresee, and dread;
That I, in fact, a real interest have,
Which to my own advantage I would save,
And, with the usual courtier's trick, intend
To serve myself, forgetful of my friend.

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For my own Monument

© Matthew Prior

AS doctors give physic by way of prevention,
Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.

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On Gold

© Jonathan Swift

All-ruling tyrant of the earth,
To vilest slaves I owe my birth,
How is the greatest monarch blest,
When in my gaudy livery drest!

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On My Birthday, July 21

© Matthew Prior

I, MY dear, was born to-day--
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth: