THE day begins to droop,— Its course is done: But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun. The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain. An engine pants and hums …
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I LOVE the jocund dance, The softly breathing song, Where innocent eyes do glance, And where lisps the maiden’s tongue. I love the laughing vale, I love the echoing hill, Where mirth does never fail, And the jolly swain laughs his fill. I love the pleasant…
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We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee, As théou, Léove, were the déep thought And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we, Thy fires of thought out-spoken: But burn’d not through us thy imagining Like fiérce méood in a séong céaught, We…
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Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d? Can…
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To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our Father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is man, His child and care. For Mercy has a…
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A Soldier – His Prayer
(This anonymous poem was blown by the wind into a slit trench at El Agheila, Libya, during a heavy bombardment). Stay with me, God. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark Of courage dies. The night is long; Be with me, God, and make me strong.…
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All last night I had quiet In a fragrant dream and warm: She became my Sabbath, And round my neck, her arm. I knew the warmth in my dreaming; …
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Roses can wound, But not from having thorns they do most harm; Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon’d, Deep in the soul alarm. And it hath been deep within my heart like fear, Girl, when you are near. The mist of sense, Wherein the soul goes shielded, can divide,…
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William Blake (1757–1827). THE SUN descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven’s high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green…
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William Blake (1757–1827). O ROSE, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy; And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
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Our lives, discoloured with our present woes, May still grow white and shine with happier hours. So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains Of rushing torrents and descending rains, Works itself clear, and as it runs refines, till by degrees the floating mirror shines; Reflects each flower that…