A bird and flower upon the tree, Sweet peony and oriole,
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Poor little diary, with its simple thoughts,
its good resolves, its "Studied French an hour,"
662 lines, 1 comment
OH the yellow boisterous sea,
The surging, chafing, murderous sea!
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"I AM Joy," she said; but her voice was low,
Too low for laughter;
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Good friend, be patient: goes the world awry?
well, can you groove it straight with all your pains?
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"Lest that by any means
When I have preached to others I myself
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TOO rash, sweet birds, spring is not spring;
Sharp winds are fell in east and north;
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"Answered a score of times." Oh, looked for teacher, is this all you will teach me? I in the dark
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BUT wait. Let each by each the days pass by,
One faded and one blown like summer flowers;
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Not yet!
I thought this time 'twas done at last,
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SOFT voices of the woods, that make
The summer air a harmony,
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BLITHE summer blossom, born too late,
Wilt make my desert garden fair?
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I DID not think to love her. As we go
We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in its sheath,
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SOME quick kind tears, some easy sorrow,
And then 'tis past.
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The thrush that, yet alone, pipes for his mate Knows she will come in time to build the nest,
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The sun drops luridly into the west;
darkness has raised her arms to draw him down
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Five minutes here, and they must steal two more!
shameful! Here have I been five mortal years
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DAY is dead, and let us sleep, Sleep a while or sleep for aye,
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DEAR love, good-night. And, tender sleep ,Seal up her lids like these drowsed flowers,
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DEAREST, this one day we own, Stolen from the crowd and press,
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No, mother, I am not sad:
Why think me sad? I was always still,
56 lines, 1 comment
Alas, I thought this forest must be true,
And would not change because of my changed eyes;
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FAREWELL: we two shall still meet day by day, Live side by side;
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HARK the sky-lark in the cloud, Hark the cricket in the grass,
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NOT by her grave: thither I bid them take
Fresh garlands of the flowers that pleased her best,
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If I should die this night, (as well might be,
So pain has on my weakness worked its will),
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LOVE is dying. Why then, let it die.
Trample it down, that it die more fast.
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Oh the dear summer evening! How the air
is mellow with the delicate breath of flowers
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Joy that's half too keen, and true, Makes us tears.
18 lines
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