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“ay, not at home, then, didst thou say? / —And, prithee, hath he gone to court?” …
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This was your butterfly, you see,— / His fine wings made him vain: …
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She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can, / Through her bright fluttering rags, the dark, the cold. …
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Sweet world, if you will hear me now: / I may not own a sounding Lyre …
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Where the graves were many, we looked for one. / Oh, the Irish rose was red, …
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I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, / Than any story painted in your books. …
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Between the falling leaf and rose-bud’s breath; / The bird’s forsaken nest and her new song …
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I read somewhere that a swan, snow-white, / In the sun all day, in the moon all night, …
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“my mother says I must not pass / Too near that glass; …
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His grace of Marlborough, legends say, / Though battle-lightnings proved his worth, …
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Almost afraid they led her in / (A dwarf more piteous none could find): …