WHEN we can all so excellently give
The measure of love’s wisdom with a blow,—
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THE MASTER and the slave go hand in hand,
Though touch be lost. The poet is a slave,
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We never knew the Sorrow or the pain
Within him, for he seemed as one asleep
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I
Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms
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Some are the brothers of all humankind,
And own them, whatsoever their estate;
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Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand,
He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore,
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A flying word from here and there
Had sown the name at which we sneered,
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Here where the wind is always north-north-east
And children learn to walk on frozen toes,
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Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive
At such a false and florid and far drawn
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The miller's wife had waited long, The tea was cold, 
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I met him, as one meets a ghost or two,
Between the gray Arch and the old Hotel
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When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns.—(Acts xxviii, 15)
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By what serene malevolence of names
Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus?
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In Tilbury Town did Old King Cole
A wise old age anticipate,
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Yes, you have it; I can see.
Beautiful?… Dear, look at me!
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(ROOSEVELT)
He turned aside to see the carcase of the lion: and behold, there was a swarm of bees and honey in the carcase of the lion … And the men of the
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From the Past and Unavailing
Out of cloudland we are steering:
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Never mind the day we left, or the day the women clung to us;
All we need now is the last way they looked at us.
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“We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit,
From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet.
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And there you are again, now as you are.
Observe yourself as you discern yourself
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She'd look upon us, if she could,
As hard as Rhadamanthus would;
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I found a torrent falling in a glen
Where the sun’s light shone silvered and leaf-split;
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Foreguarded and unfevered and serene,
Back to the perilous gates of Truth he went—
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I
As long as Fame's imperious music rings
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Blue in the west the mountain stands,
And through the long twilight
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FIRST VOICE
So long adrift, so fast aground,
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Whenever I go by there nowadays
And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass,
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Small knowledge have we that by knowledge met
May not some day be quaint as any told
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O’Leary was a poet—for a while:
He sang of many ladies frail and fair,
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Once there was a cabin here, and once there was a man;
And something happened here before my memory began.
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