Morning poems

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The Wreck of the Deutschland (Dec. 6, 7, 1875)

© Gerard Manley Hopkins

[[A-text]]to the happy memory of five Francisan nuns,exiles by the Falck Laws, drowned betweenmidnight & morning of December 7 [[1875]].

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The Flâneur

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

I love all sights of earth and skies,From flowers that glow to stars that shine;The comet and the penny show,All curious things, above, below,Hold each in turn my wandering eyes:I claim the Christian Pagan's line,Humani nihil, -- even so, --And is not human life divine?

When soft the western breezes blow,And strolling youths meet sauntering maids,I love to watch the stirring tradesBeneath the Vallombrosa shadesOur much-enduring elms bestow;The vender and his rhetoric's flow,That lambent stream of liquid lies;The bait he dangles from his line,The gudgeon and his gold-washed prize

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© Heber Reginald

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid!Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

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The Song of an Exile

© William Hamilton

I have seen the Cliffs of Dover And the White Horse on the Hill; I have walked the lanes, a rover; I have dreamed beside the rill: I have known the fields awaking To the gentle touch of Spring; The joy of morning breaking, And the peace your twilights bring

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Poetical Epistle to Mrs. Green

© Grose Francis

Hoping no offence, my dear Madam Green,You're surely the strangest gentlewoman that ever was seen;Didn't you say you'd come and see my drawings, and eat some of my plumb cake,Here I've kept it above a week, and all for your sake,And now it's as hard as a stone, and not worth a pin,To waste so fine a cake is I'm sure both a shame and a sin

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© Greene Richard

An immense acreage of solitude

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On Sherbourne Street

© Greene Richard

I am at home in a high-risewhere at night the voice of being humanis a siren blare or a drunk crying fucksomething or other on Sherbourne Street

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Ordinary, Moving

© Gotlieb Phyllis

is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out

the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song

this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever

Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba

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The Deserted Village, A Poem

© Oliver Goldsmith

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

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The Rising Village

© Oliver Goldsmith

Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the

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To a Dead Crow

© Ghose Kasiprasad

Gay minstrel of the Indian clime!How oft at morning's rosy primeWhen thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers,Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers,And to avoid that hateful sound,That plagues a head howe'er profound,Have walked out in my garden, whereBeside the tank, in many a square,Sweet lilies, jasmines, roses bloom,Far from those trees within whose gloomOf foliage thick, thou hadst thy nestFrom daily toil at night to rest

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Trivia; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London

© John Gay

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful laysThe proper implements for wintry ways;Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,To read the various warnings of the skies

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The Widow's Croone

© Galt John

And maun I lanely spin the tow, And ca' the weary wheel,For cauld they lie,--where do they lie, The winsome and the leil?

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Do not Stand at my Grave and Weep

© Frye Mary Elizabeth

Version 1 (revised by another hand?)

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To Mr. Blanchard, the Celebrated Aeronaut

© Philip Morin Freneau

Nil Mortalibus ard unum lestCoelum ipsum petimus stuttistra. HORACE.

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City of Huge Buildings

© Frank Florence Kiper

City of huge buildings into which men have poured their souls,City of innumerable schools where little children are taught and cared for,City of the great University, discussing solemn and learned questions,City of well-dressed, beautiful women, sleek, satisfied, sure of their clothes and of themselves,And their husbands sleek and satisfied also:I, a common prostitute, in the wan morning buying cocaine,Ask you the meaning of it all

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Little Bundles of Joy

© Foreman Gabe

Mark lobbed a pitchfork across the pooltoward a cat he thought was Kate'safter Kate drove over Mark's family dogtotally on purpose.

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Christ's Triumph after Death

© Giles Fletcher The Younger

IBegan to glister in her beams, and nowThe roses of the day began to flow'rIn th' eastern garden; for Heav'ns smiling browHalf insolent for joy begun to show: The early Sun came lively dancing out, And the brag lambs ran wantoning about,That heav'n, and earth might seem in triumph both to shout