Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poem)
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. "O C?sar, we who are ...
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. "O C?sar, we who are ...
One moment bid the horses wait, Since tiffin is not laid till three, Below the upward path and straight You ...
It was a wet wan hour in spring, And Nature met King Doom beside a lane, Wherein Hodge trudged, all ...
"Aug." 10, 1911. Full moon to-night; and six and twenty years Since my full moon first broke from angel spheres! ...
"Aug." 10, 1911. Full moon to-night; and six and twenty years Since my full moon first broke from angel spheres! ...
Well Sir, 'tis granted, I said Dryden's Rhimes, Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times: What foolish Patron, is there ...
Much wine had passed, with grave discourse Of who fucks who, and who does worse (Such as you usually do ...
A cold February wind crawls up my leg and rattles my knees A preacher fumbles over the verses that I ...
I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. ...
We were three weeks Into term, Sheila, When you came Through the classroom door; Forty-four children Bent over books, Copying ...
What is our life? a play of passion; Our mirth the musick of division: Our mother's wombes the tyring houses ...
Of this worlds theatre in which we stay, My love like the spectator ydly sits Beholding me that all the ...
OF this worlds Theatre in which we stay, My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits beholding me that all the ...
What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, ...
DAME DOWSON, was a granny grey, Who, three score years and ten, Had pass'd her busy hours away, In talking ...
Ne Rubeam, Pingui donatus Munere (Horace, Epistles II.i.267) While you, great patron of mankind, sustain The balanc'd world, and open ...
Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel-- Faint iambics that the ...
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