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Favorite Poems

John Clare – The Sweetest Woman There (excerpt)

I loved her lip her cheek her eye She cheered my midnight gloom
A bonny rose ‘neath God’s own sky In one perrenial bloom
She lives ‘mid pastures evergreen And meadows ever fair
Each winter spring and summer scene The sweetest woman there

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Walt Whitman – I Heard You Solemn-Sweet Pipes of the Organ

I heard you solemn-sweet pipes of the organ as last Sunday morn
     I pass’d the church,
Winds of autumn, as I walk’d the woods at dusk I heard your
     long-stretch’d sighs up above so mournful,
I heard the perfect Italian tenor singing at the opera, I heard the
     soprano in the midst of the quartet singing;
Heart of my love! you too I heard murmuring low through one
     of the wrists around my head,
Heard the pulse of you when all was still ringing little bells last
     night under my ear.

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Lewis Carroll – The Crocodile

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!

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William Shakespeare – Sonnet 64

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defac’d
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras’d
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

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Emily Dickinson – Wild Nights–Wild Nights! [249]

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

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Emily Dickinson – A Light exists in Spring

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here

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William Shakespeare – Sonnet 109

O! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie

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William Butler Yeats – Song of the Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

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Edna St. Vincent Millay – Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.

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