Pet poems

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A Leak in the Dike

© Cary Phoebe

The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day,And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play:"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see,To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me;And take these cakes I made for him-- They are hot and smoking yet;You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set

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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third

© George Gordon Byron

I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smil'd, And then we parted--not as now we part, But with a hope

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The Trinity Cake

© Burke Johnny

As I leaned o'er the rail of the Eagle, The letter boy brought unto me,A little gilt edged invitation, Saying the girls want you over to tea,Sure I know the O'Hooligans sent it, And I went, just for ould friendship sakeWhen the first thing they gave me to tackle, Was a slice of the Trinity Cake

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Loss of the S.S. Regulus

© Burke Johnny

Ye daring sons of Newfoundland, That fear not storm or seaPlease hearken for a moment And attention give to me,While I explain in language plain, That filled hearts with dismay,Of how the Regulus got lost In Petty Harbor Bay

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Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hearThe name I used to run at, when a child,From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,To glance up in some face that proved me dearWith the look of its eyes

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Aurora Leigh

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Book I I am like,They tell me, my dear father

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The Testament of Beauty

© Robert Seymour Bridges

from Book I, Introduction

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The Book of Urizen

© William Blake

CHAPTER IIn Eternity! Unknown, unprolific,Self-clos'd, all-repelling: what demonHath form'd this abominable void,This soul-shudd'ring vacuum? Some said"It is Urizen

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Herrick's Julia

© Bevington Helen

Whenas in perfume Julia went,Then, then, how sweet was the intentOf that inexorable scent.

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The Sparrow

© Benson Arthur Christopher

O pertest, most self-satisfied Of aught that breathes or moves,See where you sit, with head aside, To chirp your vulgar loves:Or raking in the uncleanly street You bolt your ugly meal,Undaunted by the approaching feet, The heedless splashing wheel

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A Sestina of Memories

© Ball J. E.

When you were nine, and I was six years old,Do you remember how we wandered forth,Two small explorers, through the summer fields,With apple turnovers provisioned well,And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass,In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rose?

And how the farmer in his fury roseWith hot red face, as ogres wore of old,And eyeing angrily his battered grass,With wingèd words he drove the culprits forth,And swore a whipping would be theirs as wellThe next time they profaned his sacred fields?

Regretfully we left those sunny fields(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose),And sate us down beside a little wellThat bubbled up 'midst stonework grey and old,And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth,To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass

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Trifles

© Anonymous

The massive gates of Circumstance Are turned upon the smallest hinge,And thus some seeming pettiest chance Oft gives our life its after-tinge.

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A Sonnet upon the Pitiful Burning of the Globe Playhouse in London

© Anonymous

Now sitt thee downe, Melpomene,Wrapt in a sea-coal robe,And tell the dolefull tragedie,That late was playd at Globe;For noe man that can singe and sayeBut was scard on St

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Patience

© Anonymous

Pacience is a poynt, Þa3 hit displese ofte

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The Old Man's Wish

© Anonymous

If I live to be old, for I find I go down,Let this be my fate: In a country townMay I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate

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Amy Margaret's Five Years Old

© William Allingham

Amy Margaret's five years old,Amy Margaret's hair is gold,Dearer twenty-thousand-fold Than gold, is Amy Margaret

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While I Wrote This a Battering Ram of Knives Excavated Old Wounds -- The Poem Attacking Stalin

© Aaron Rafi

There is something deep inside me, I don’t know whoplaced it there

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Walking with Mandelstam

© Aaron Rafi

Once I thought that if I walked with you to the endof Russian literature, bumped into Yesenin and hissoft words, mingled with the throng that formedaround Pushkin or waited patiently at the SenateSquare while you threw pieces of Blok, Akhmatovaand poor old Mayakovsky to eager readers whopecked at your references, I would come tounderstand all that you represent