Thought Of Ph—a At News Of Her Death (Thomas Hardy Poem)
NOT a line of her writing have I, Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time ...
NOT a line of her writing have I, Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time ...
I I would that folk forgot me quite, Forgot me quite! I would that I could shrink from sight, And ...
at news of her death Not a line of her writing have I Not a thread of her hair, No ...
Driving in the fall 'morn, light filtering into the clearing wood; I spied a wall awakening from its slumber, no ...
Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate Hid away in an oaken chest, And a Franklin platter of ancient date ...
You best discern'd of my mind's inward eyes, And yet your graces outwardly divine, Whose dear remembrance in my bosom ...
To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady, Mrs Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and ...
For every hour that thou wilt spare me now I will allow, Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee, When ...
About the size of an old-style dollar bill, American or Canadian, mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays ...
At four o'clock in the gun-metal blue dark we hear the first crow of the first cock just below the ...
The trigger is sensation. The violin's a dirty animal. I want you to take away the suddenness. Pain up the ...
I I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels, Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator Laying my ghost ...
From the depths of the green garden-closes Where the summer in darkness dozes Till autumn pluck from his hand An ...
I know a village in a far-off land Where from a sunny, mountain-girdled plain With tinted walls a space on ...
Another prospect pleased the builder's eye, And Fashion tenanted (where Fashion wanes) Here in the sorrowful suburban lanes When first ...
The portrait there above my bed They tell me is a work of art; My Wife,--since twenty years she's dead: ...
THE relic taken, what avails the shrine? The locket, pictureless? O heart of mine, Art thou not worse than that, ...
What means my name to you?...T'will die As does the melancholy murmur Of distant waves or, of a summer, The ...
Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you ...
When in death I shall calmly recline, O bear my heart to my mistress dear, Tell her it lived upon ...
Here, where the noises of the busy town, The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not, We stand and gaze ...
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