Truth poems

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And you will claim

© Ivan Donn Carswell

And you will claim we need more births to keep
our population mix in check while nature’s truths
suggest there are too many of us yet?
And you will make the claim with good intent,

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Ah, that Murphy girl

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Let’s talk about the weather then,
would that help you take your ease?
Gossip is so rare from you
the noise of falling leaves is louder than
your breathing; if breathing is whatever is
sustaining you.

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The Wandering Pilgrim

© Matthew Prior

Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no,
Th' allowance is too scant.

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A few kind words

© Ivan Donn Carswell

A few kind words, what can be bought with that?
In essence just a clique of tidy prose,
a verb, a noun, perhaps an adjectival phrase
offered in the form of venal praise

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The Black Cottage

© Robert Frost

We chanced in passing by that afternoon

To catch it in a sort of special picture

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Electra On Azalea Path

© Sylvia Plath

The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.

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The True Man

© Edgar Albert Guest

This is the sort of a man was he:
True when it hurt him a lot to be;
Tight in a corner an' knowin' a lie
Would have helped him out, but he wouldn't buy
His freedom there in so cheap a way--
He told the truth though he had to pay.

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Everything That Acts Is Actual

© Denise Levertov

into December? a lowland
of space, perception of space
towering of shadows of clouds blown upon
clouds over new ground, new made
under heavy December footsteps? the only
way to live?

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The Borough. Letter XVIII: The Poor And Their

© George Crabbe

applause:
To her own house is borne the week's supply;
There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to

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To Gordon Leaving Khartoum

© George MacDonald

The silence of traitorous feet!
The silence of close-pent rage!
The roar, and the sudden heart-beat!
And the shot through the true heart going,
The truest heart of the age!
And the Nile serenely flowing!

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L’allegro

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore

Felicity!

  Who ope'st to none that knocks, yet, laughing weak,

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The Bastille: A Vision

© Helen Maria Williams

"Drear cell! along whose lonely bounds,
  Unvisited by light,
  Chill silence dwells with night,
Save where the clanging fetter sounds!

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Verses III

© Charlotte Turner Smith

Written by the same lady on seeing her two sons
at play.
SWEET age of bless'd delusion! blooming boys,
Ah! revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys,
With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop
To follow, sportively, the rolling hoop;

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Tim Turpin

© Thomas Hood

Tim Turpin he was gravel-blind,
And ne'er had seen the skies :
For Nature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.

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The Dream of Eugene Aram

© Thomas Hood

'Twas in the prime of summer-time
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.

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XIV: Ode: To Sir William Sydney, On His Birth-day

© Benjamin Jonson

Now that the harth is crown'd with smiling fire,

 And some do drink, and some do dance,

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The Golden Legend: VI. The School Of Salerno

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  _Doctor Serafino._ I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain,
That a word which is only conceived in the brain
Is a type of eternal Generation;
The spoken word is the Incarnation.

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The Banks Of Wye - Book I

© Robert Bloomfield

No butler's proxies snore supine,
Where the old monarch kept his wine;
No Welch ox roasting, horns and all,
Adorns his throng'd and laughing hall;
But where he pray'd, and told his beads,
A thriving ash luxuriant spreads.

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The House Of Dust: Part 04: 02: Death: And A Derisive Chorus

© Conrad Aiken

The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.

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Sixth Sunday After Epiphany

© John Keble

There are, who darkling and alone,

  Would wish the weary night were gone,