IN the castle of Glubbdubdrib
How spendidly we dine
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At last I know—it’s on old ivory jars,
Glassed with old miniatures and garnered once with musk.
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UNCLES who burst on childhood, from the East, Blown from air, like bearded ghosts arriving,
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You can shuffle and scuffle and scold,
You can rattle the knockers and knobs,
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TRANSPORTS of filed nerves; a wistful cough; One sensual hairbrush reluctantly concludes
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THE plough that marks on Harley's field In flying earth its print
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I. The King of Cuckooz THE King of Cuckooz Contrey
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THOU moon, like a white Christus hanging At the sky's cross-roads, I'll court thee not,
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VENUS with rosy-cloven rump And rings of straw-bright flying hair
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IN an old play-house, in an old play, In an old piece that has been done to death,
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IN Undine's mirror the cutpurse found Five candlesticks by magic drowned,
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MUSIC, on the air's edge, rides alone, Plumed like empastured Caesars of the sky
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SUDDENLY to become John Benbow, walking down William Street With a tin trunk and a five-pound note, looking for a place to eat,
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(To the memory of William Hickey, Esq.) COMING out of India with ten thousand a year
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TAKE your great light away, your music end; I'm off to feed myself as quick as I can.
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No pause! The buried pipes ring out, The flour-faced Antic runs from sight;
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(To the Poets' Ladies) SHALL I give you the Bourbon-sugars
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THIS Water, like a sky that no one uses, Air turned to stone, ridden by stars and birds
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"TALBINGO RIVER"—as one says of bones: "Captain" or "Commodore" that smelt gunpowder
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ADAM, because on the mind's roads Your mouth is always in a hurry,
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Part One [A walled garden of York. It is an August Sunday, and the baying of deep church-bells is blown faintly in a warm wind. Laure
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MY words are the poor footmen of your pride, Of what you cry, you trumpets, each to each
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LESBIA'S daughter, I shall tell no lie, Here's no fit amber for such a dainty fly.
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THE cock's far cry From lonely yards
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(To the etchings of Norman Lindsay) Now the statues lean over each to each, and sing,
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RANKS of electroplated cubes, dwindling to glitters, Like the other pasture, the trigonometry of marble,
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EARTH which has known so many passages Of April air, so many marriages
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IF all those tumbling babes of heaven, Plump cherubim with blown cheeks,
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(Or Goethe for the Times) ONCE long ago lived a Flea
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SOPHIE, in shocks of scarlet lace, Receives her usual embrace
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