Men (Hanford Lennox Gordon Poems)
Man is a creature of a thousand whims;The slave of hope and fear and circumstance.Through toil and martyrdom a million ...
Man is a creature of a thousand whims;The slave of hope and fear and circumstance.Through toil and martyrdom a million ...
One after one the stars have risen and set,Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain:The Bear, that prowled all night ...
Patience.See Consolation.--Where--e'er the FatesCall, or recall Us, let Us follow still:Whate'er it be, all Fortune is subdu'dBy Patience.--Evils, for which ...
Amazement.See Alarm.To Him the Wind with doubtful Terror waftsThe mingled Noise: hoarse Murmurs of Distress,And Clamours from the City pierce ...
I'MID glad green miles of tillageAnd fields where cattle graze,A prosy little village,You drowse away the days.And yet — a ...
In the feathergrass steppeSources lie buried,The thirsty sun knowsLife isn't raspberries.In barren haymeadowsA child tarries,Walnut crosierOutstretched, gold-eyed,The bracing treasure,Slender, streams.They ...
IHe who has looked upon EarthDeeper than flower and fruit,Losing some hue of his mirth,As the tree striking rock at ...
Round Rajagriha five fair hills arose,Guarding King Bimbas?ra's sylvan town:Baibh?ra green with lemon-grass and palms;Bipulla, at whose foot thin SarsutiSteals ...
I sit upon a shattered shaft, as if Time, worn and blind,Had smote himself in sudden rage and left one ...
I.In ev'ry Town, where Thamis rolls his Tyde,A narrow pass there is, with Houses low;Where ever and anon, the Stream ...
Shall gods be said to thump the cloudsWhen clouds are cursed by thunder,Be said to weep when weather howls?Shall rainbows ...
Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban; Little used to lie down at the bidding ...
The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot "Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et ...
You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', But ...
Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane, For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain; Never did Covent Garden boast So bright a batter'd, ...
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, ...
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