THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER. (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Poem)
SONG OF THE IMPRISONED COUNT. COUNT. I KNOW a flower of beauty rare, Ah, how I hold it dear! To ...
SONG OF THE IMPRISONED COUNT. COUNT. I KNOW a flower of beauty rare, Ah, how I hold it dear! To ...
"WHAT tuneful strains salute mine ear Without the ...
A FEAST was in a village spread,-- It was a wedding-day, they said. The parlour of the inn I found, ...
FLORENTINE we now design to show;-- A greater blockhead ne'er appeared below; It seems a prudent woman he had wed, ...
NEAR Rome, of yore, close to the Florence road, Was seen a humble innkeeper's abode; Small sums were charged; few ...
Eclogue the First. Whanne Englonde, smeethynge from her lethal wounde, From her galled necke dyd twytte the chayne awaie, Kennynge ...
Whoe'er she be, That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me; Where'er she lie, Locked up from ...
I What's become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest, or ...
THERE was once a day, but old Time wasythen young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some ...
WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their ...
WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know That Death has murder'd Johnie; An' here his body lies fu' low; For saul ...
INSTEAD of a Song, boy's, I'll give you a Toast; Here's to the memory of those on the twelfth that ...
1 OUT from behind this bending, rough-cut Mask, (All straighter, liker Masks rejected-this preferr'd,) This common curtain of the face, ...
When Yankies, skill'd in martial rule, First put the British troops to school; Instructed them in warlike trade, And new ...
Whene'er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast. I here stand keeper while 'tis ...
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is't ...
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is't ...
WHOE'ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe; To whom the sounds of melody ...
(From the early Anglo-Saxon text) May I for my own self song's truth reckon, Journey's jargon, how I in harsh ...
Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And lie ...
I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he ...
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