The name thou wearest does thee grievous wrong. No mimic thou! That voice is thine alone! The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare’s song; The birds, but notes of thine imperial own!
The Mocking-Bird
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The name thou wearest does thee grievous wrong. No mimic thou! That voice is thine alone! The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare’s song; The birds, but notes of thine imperial own!
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As some mysterious wanderer of the skies, Emerging from the deeps of outer dark, Traces for once in human ken the arc Of its stupendous curve, then swiftly flies Out through some orbit veiled in space, which lies Where no imagination may embark,— Some onward-reaching track that God did mark For...
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Over their graves rang once the bugle’s call, The searching shrapnel and the crashing ball; The shriek, the shock of battle, and the neigh Of horse; the cries of anguish and dismay; And the loud cannon’s thunders that appall. Now through the years the brown pine-needles fall, The vines run...