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Villanelle Of Sunset

© Ernest Christopher Dowson

Come hither, child, and rest,
This is the end of day,
Behold the weary West!

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Christ’s Descent Into Purgatory, By Giorgione, At Venice

© Richard Monckton Milnes

The saving work for man is finishèd,
The kingdoms of the Earth and Air o'erthrown;
So now hath Christ come down among the dead,
Spoiling the Spoiler, to redeem his own.

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Far From My Heavenly Home

© Henry Francis Lyte

Far from my heavenly home,
Far from my Father’s breast,
Fainting I cry, blest Spirit, come
And speed me to my rest.

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Pelleas And Ettarre

© Alfred Tennyson

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors
Were softly sundered, and through these a youth,
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields
Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

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The Chapel Royal St. James’s, On The 10th February, 1840

© Caroline Norton

But brightly to the last,
Fair Fortune shine, with calm and steady ray,
Upon the tenor of thy happy way;
A future like the past:
And every prayer by loyal subjects said,
Bring down a separate blessing on thy head!

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River Lilies

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,

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On The Day Of The Destruction Of Jerusalem By Titus

© George Gordon Byron

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome:
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.

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The Star Of Bethlehem

© John Greenleaf Whittier

Where Time the measure of his hours
By changeful bud and blossom keeps,
And, like a young bride crowned with flowers,
Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps;

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from The Twelve

© Alexander Blok

The lads have all gone to the wars
to serve in the Red Guard ~
to serve in the Red Guard ~
and risk their hot heads for the cause.

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The Devil's Drive: An Unfinished Rhapsody

© George Gordon Byron

'I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
  A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends,
  By driving my favourite pace:
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.

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Beneath The Snow

© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

’Twas near the close of the dying year,
And December’s winds blew cold and drear,
Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet
In gusty whirls through square and street,
Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still
In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.

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The Auction Sale

© Henry Reed

And there was silence in the tent.
They gazed in silence; silently
The wind dropped down, no longer shook
The flapping sides and gaping holes.
And some moved back, and others went
Closer, to get a better look.

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Book Eighth: Retrospect--Love Of Nature Leading To Love Of Man

© William Wordsworth

WHAT sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard

Up to thy summit, through the depth of air

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Toys And Life

© Edgar Albert Guest

You can learn a lot from boys

By the way they use their toys;

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The First Booke Of Qvodlibets

© Robert Hayman


Though my best lines no dainty things affords,
My worst haue in them some thing else then words.

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The Red King

© Charles Kingsley

And fend our princes every one,
From foul mishap and trahison;
But kings that harrow Christian men
Shall England never bide again.

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Possum Trot

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

I 've journeyed 'roun' consid'able, a-seein' men an' things,
  An' I 've learned a little of the sense that meetin' people brings;
  But in spite of all my travelling an' of all I think I know,
  I 've got one notion in my head, that I can't git to go;
  An' it is that the folks I meet in any other spot
  Ain't half so good as them I knowed back home in Possum Trot.

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At Home

© Valery Yaklovich Bryusov

It's all so familiar and clear,
My eye's accustomed to every turn;
I'm not mistaken- I'm at home;
The wallpaper flowers, the chains of books…

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The Curse of Mother Flood

© Henry Kendall

Wizened the wood is, and wan is the way through it;

 White as a corpse is the face of the fen;

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To Elsie Fogerty

© Robert Laurence Binyon

On living lips to mould and modulate
The shapes of sound, that each may mirror true
The mystery of the word and breathe it new
Into the entranced ear, warm and intimate;