Fuscara; or, the Bee Errant (John Cleveland Poems)
Nature's confectioner, the bee(Whose suckets are moist alchemy,The still of his refining moldMinting the garden into gold),Having rifled all the ...
Nature's confectioner, the bee(Whose suckets are moist alchemy,The still of his refining moldMinting the garden into gold),Having rifled all the ...
Summer, adieu Adieu gregarious season.Goodbye, 'revoir, farewell.Now day comes late; now chillier blows the breeze onForsaken beach and boarded-up hotel.Now wild ...
How gladly, Madam, would I go,To see your Gardens, and Chateau;From thence the fine Improvements view,Or walk your verdant Avenue;Delighted, ...
The world's Gods Lute; his creatures are the strings;Gods finger gives them motion; Angels singsTheir Hallelujahs to it; on week ...
Cambodunum, Cambodunum, how I love the sound o' t' name! Roman sowdiers belt a fort here, ...
WITH tallow casks all dunnaged tight, with tiers on tiers ol bales, With cargo crammed from hatch to hatch, she ...
You've heard of the Valley of Klondyke, The cruellest and hardest of places,Where all men are moiling and toiling for ...
A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe,A pot full o' porridge; away we go! ...
I niver heerd its name; we call it just "Our beck." Mebbe, there's bigger streams down Ripon way; ...
To this green place the tourists troop,By twos, by threes, and group by group, Lads in bright blazers, girls in ...
Very well, you liberals,And navigators into realms intellectual,You sailors through heights imaginative,Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling into air pockets,You ...
Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye (Truly Jehovah's bow suspends No pots of ...
In town to sell his fruit, he saw her- Françoise in her summer slacks- turning to him, coming back to ...
The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught ...
Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean And so she thought she'd soak 'em in ...
For five and twenty years I've run A famous train; But now my spell of speed is done, No more ...
The Spanish women don't wear slacks Because their hips are too enormous. 'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks No inspiration ...
Do you recall that happy bike With bundles on our backs? How near to heaven it was like To blissfully ...
Having an aged hate of height I forced myself to climb the Tower, Yet paused at every second flight Because ...
Very well, you liberals, And navigators into realms intellectual, You sailors through heights imaginative, Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling ...
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