Cataclysm (C J Dennis Poems)
We curse our lot; we gird at fate; Like peevish children we complain;Hope dies, and life grows desperate Because of ...
We curse our lot; we gird at fate; Like peevish children we complain;Hope dies, and life grows desperate Because of ...
O sun, shine hot on the river;For the ice is turning an ashen hue,And the still bright water is looking ...
They may be duds or they may be drones, Or legislators heaven-sent;But the A.L.P. for all atones When it gets ...
Minstrel, what have you to doWith this man that, after you,Sharing not your happy fate,Sat as England's Laureate?Vainly, in these ...
The light of noon comes reddened from a skyA-blur with dust; the irritable windBurns on your cheek, and leans against ...
Suppose it is nothing but the hive:That there are drones and workersAnd queens, and nothing but storing honey —(Material things ...
A deep bell that links the downsTo the drowsy air;Every loop of sound that swoons,Finds a circle fair,Whereon it doth ...
Black drips the ooze that you secrete on allThat Honour's burin graves or Love holds dear:At sacrifice you laugh, at ...
Trees in groves, Kine in droves, In ocean sport the scaly herds, Wedge-like cleave the air the birds, To northern ...
Man was made of social earth, Child and brother from his birth; Tethered by a liquid cord Of blood through ...
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones-- In fact, he's remarkably fat. He doesn't haunt pubs--he has eight or nine ...
And the Piper dreams as he pipes up in his mind colours in choral horizons distant, of courtliness dimmed in ...
BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF 'WAT TYLER' 'A Daniel come to judgment! ...
KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations; ...
A deep bell that links the downs To the drowsy air; Every loop of sound that swoons, Finds a circle ...
Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich ...
The solitary huntsman No coat of pink doth wear, But midnight black from cap to spur Upon his midnight mare. ...
the population controller slips into disguise his charming suit his veil of words conceals his gaze he has laid out ...
Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England's ...
Suppose it is nothing but the hive: That there are drones and workers And queens, and nothing but storing honey ...
Ploughman, whose gnarly hand yet kindly wheeled Thy plough to ring this solitary tree With clover, whose round plat, reserved ...
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