Us Poets II (Franklin Pierce Adams Poems)
Wordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff; Much of Moore I have forgotten;Parts of Tennyson are guff; Bits of Byron, too, are ...
Wordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff; Much of Moore I have forgotten;Parts of Tennyson are guff; Bits of Byron, too, are ...
I eat oatmeal for breakfast. I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it. I eat ...
If God has been good enough to give you a poet Then listen to him. But for God's sake let ...
'My father still reads the dictionary every day. He says your life depends on your power to master words.' Arthur ...
(a) they seek to celebrate the word not to bring their knives out on a poem dissecting it to find ...
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls Among the mountains, and thy song is fed By living springs far up ...
Impetuously I sprang from bed, Long before lunch was up, That I might drain the dizzy dew From the day's ...
Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation! Wherever they can come With clankum and blankum ...
From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale: In stale blank verse a subject stale I send ...
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. But one such death remain'd to come; The ...
WORDSWORTH upon Helvellyn ! Let the cloud Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind, Then break against the rock, and show behind ...
You were the one I wanted most to know So like yet unlike, like fire and snow, The casual voice, ...
THE LANDS OF MY CHILDHOOD 1 I am leaving the holy city of Leeds For the last time for the ...
I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death's shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the ...
What I seek far yet seldom find Is large simplicity of mind In fellow men; For I have sprouted from ...
THOU strainest through the mountain fern, A most exiguously thin Burn. For all thy foam, for all thy din, Thee ...
"Where's the need of singing now?"-- Smooth your brow, Momus, and be reconciled. For king Kronos is a child-- Child ...
Alas! England now mourns for her poet that's gone- The late and the good Lord Tennyson. I hope his soul ...
I I have loved England, dearly and deeply, Since that first morning, shining and pure, The white cliffs of Dover ...
Why did you bruise me with your rough places If you did not want me to tell you about them? ...
I know that he told how I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all ...
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