Amazing poems

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The House Of Dust: {Complete}

© Conrad Aiken

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

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Day's End

© Lesbia Harford

Little girls,
You are gay,
Little factory girls,
At the end of your day.

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Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Power. Book III.

© Matthew Prior

Come then, my soul: I call thee by that name,
Thou busy thing, from whence I know I am;
For, knowing that I am, I know thou art,
Since that must needs exist which can impart:
But how thou camest to be, or whence thy spring,
For various of thee priests and poets sing.

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A Pastoral Entertainment

© James Thomson

While in heroic numbers some relate
The amazing turns of wise eternal fate;
Exploits of heroes in the dusty field,
That to their name immortal honour yield;

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Beppo, A Venetian Story

© George Gordon Byron

I.

'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout

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From "The Court Of Fancy"

© Thomas Godfrey

'T was sultry noon; impatient of the heat

I sought the covert of a close retreat:

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The Borough. Letter IV: Sects And Professions In Religion

© George Crabbe

"SECTS in Religion?"--Yes of every race

We nurse some portion in our favour'd place;

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Aeneid

© Virgil

THE ARGUMENT.- Turnus takes advantage of AEneas's absence,
fires some of his ships (which are transformed into sea nymphs),
and assaults his camp. The Trojans, reduc'd to the last extremities,
send Nisus and Euryalus to recall AEneas; which furnishes the
poet with that admirable episode of their friendship, generosity, and
the conclusion of their adventures.

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My Daughters In New York

© James Reiss

What streets, what taxis transport them

over bridges & speed bumps-my daughters swift

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An Essay on Man: Epistle 1

© Alexander Pope

To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke

  Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things

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Going To The Horse Flats

© Robinson Jeffers

  Sweet was the clear
Chatter of the stream now that our talk was hushed; the flitting
water-ouzel returned to her stone;
A lovely snake, two delicate scarlet lines down the dark back,
swam through the pool. The flood-battered
Trees by the stream are more noble than cathedral-columns.

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The Ghetto

© Lola Ridge

Cool, inaccessible air
Is floating in velvety blackness shot with steel-blue lights,
But no breath stirs the heat
Leaning its ponderous bulk upon the Ghetto
And most on Hester street…

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Wind by Mike White: American Life in Poetry #121 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

A waiter in a clean apron
appeared, not quite
certain, shielding his eyes, wary
of our rumbling engines.

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This was a Poet—It is That

© Emily Dickinson

This was a Poet—It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings—
And Attar so immense

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The Four Seasons : Spring

© James Thomson

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

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The Phantom Curate

© William Schwenck Gilbert

A bishop once - I will not name him see -
Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;
From pulpit shackles never set them free,
And found a sin where sin was unintentional.
All pleasures ended in abuse auricular -
The Bishop was so terribly particular.

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A Poetical Version Of A Letter From Facob Behmen

© John Byrom

’TIS Man’s own Nature, which in its own Life, 

Or Centre, stands in Enmity and Strife, 

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The Bestiary: or Orpheus’s Procession

© Guillaume Apollinaire

Admire the vital power
And nobility of line:
It’s the voice that the light made us understand here
That Hermes Trismegistus writes of in Pimander.

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The Bagman's Dog: Mr. Peters's Story

© Richard Harris Barham

It was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown'd and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive;
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup.

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Incidents in the life of my Uncle Arly

© Edward Lear

O my aged Uncle Arly!

Sitting on a heap of Barley