The Sorrows of the Blind (William Topaz McGonagall Poems)
Pity the sorrows of the poor blind, For they can but little comfort find; As they walk along the street, ...
Pity the sorrows of the poor blind, For they can but little comfort find; As they walk along the street, ...
Reading in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys, Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain For the guilty ...
Sir, Our times are much degenerate from those Which your sweet muse with your fair fortune chose, And as complexions ...
The idea danced before us as a flag; The sound of martial music; The thrill of carrying a gun; Advancement ...
When she says Margarita she means Daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, "I'll never ...
Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, And there's a sweet sob in it like rain--still rain in ...
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect ...
When you went, how was it you carried with you My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours? My book of ...
In Lake Forest, a suburb of Chicago, a woman sits at her desk to write me a letter. She holds ...
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