The Turnament of Tottenham (Anonymous Olde English Poems)
The Turnament of Tottenham; or, the Wooeing, Winning, and Wedding of Tibbe, the Reev's Davghter There.Of all thes kene conquerours ...
The Turnament of Tottenham; or, the Wooeing, Winning, and Wedding of Tibbe, the Reev's Davghter There.Of all thes kene conquerours ...
Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier z?phyre Animent la fin d'un beau jour, Au pied ...
Year after year, as Summer suns come round, Upon the Calais packet am I found: Thence to Geneva hurried by ...
Un jour le rat des champs, ami du rat de ville, Invita son ami dans son rustique asile. Il ?tait ...
All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul sledges of cordwood ...
If it wasn't for the dent he would be making in their budget his antics would be all the more ...
Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance; Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; ...
FAIR stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; ...
Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; ...
This Me -- that walks and works -- must die, Some fair or stormy Day, Adversity if it may be ...
The Spirit lasts -- but in what mode -- Below, the Body speaks, But as the Spirit furnishes -- Apart, ...
Expanse cannot be lost -- Not Joy, but a Decree Is Deity -- His Scene, Infinity -- Whose rumor's Gate ...
And you will claim we need more births to keep our population mix in check while nature's truths suggest there ...
O SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running ...
THE PROLOGUE. When that the Knight had thus his tale told In all the rout was neither young nor old, ...
I. You're my friend: I was the man the Duke spoke to; I helped the Duchess to cast off his ...
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities: the houses in pedantic rows, ...
OH! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, ...
(For Harry Clifton) I HAVE heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow. Of poets ...
Poem by Anne-Marie Derése Je suis le fer rouge sur l'èpaule du condamnè, le gibet et la corde, la hache ...
Something spreading underground won't speak to us under skin won't declare itself not all life-forms want dialogue with the machine-gods ...
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