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Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, / Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, …
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In this May-month, by grace / of heaven, things shoot apace. …
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After Kipling / HE sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint, …
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I have loved flowers that fade, / Within whose magic tents …
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Young to the end through sympathy with youth, / Gray man of learning,—champion of truth! …
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My delight and thy delight / Walking, like two angels white, …
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beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, / And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom …
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Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, / With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! …
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Sense with keenest edge unusèd, / Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; …
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Angel spirits of sleep, / White-robed, with silver hair, …
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A Poppy grows upon the shore / Bursts her twin cup in summer late: …
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They tell you that Death ’s at the turn of the road, / That under the shade of a cypress you ’ll find him, …
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When Death to either shall come,— / I pray it be first to me,— …
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The day begins to droop,— / Its course is done: …
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So sweet love seemed that April morn, / When first we kissed beside the thorn, …