Written by
Sidney Godolphin |
CLORIS, it is not thy disdaine
Can ever cover with dispaire
Or in cold ashes hide that care
Which I have fedd with soe long paine,
I may perhaps myne eyes refraine 5
And fruiteless wordes noe more impart,
But yet still serve, still serve thee in my hearte.
What though I spend my haplesse dayes
In finding entertainements out,
Carelesse of what I goe about, 10
Or seeke my peace in skillfull wayes
Applying to my Eyes new rays
Of Beauty, and another flame
Unto my Heart, my heart is still the same.
Tis true that I could love noe face 15
Inhabited by cold disdayne,
Taking delight in others paine.
Thy lookes are full of native grace;
Since then by chance scorne there hath place,
Tis to be hop't I may remove 20
This scorne one day, one day by Endless Love.
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Written by
Mother Goose |
Bell horses, bell horses, what time of day?One o'clock, two o'clock, three and away.
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Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Charle! ô mon fils!")
{March, 1871.}
Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me?
Must all fade, naught endure?
Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee,
But still for us obscure?
My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines!
Sweet mutual love we've known;
For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines
With others' souls his own.
He cries, "This has no end!" pursues his way:
He soon is downward bound:
He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day
Mere dust and ashes found.
I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands,
With sore heart forced to stay:
Why fell the blow Fate only understands!
God took my home away.
To-day one daughter and one son remain
Of all my goodly show:
Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane;
God takes my children now.
Linger, ye two still left me! though decays
Our nest, our hearts remain;
In gloom of death your mother silent prays,
I in this life of pain.
Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight,
I'll drain this cup of gall,
And scale with step resolved that dangerous height,
Which rather seems a fall.
Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs
Than end so nobly shown.
Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads,
I seek the vast unknown.
MARWOOD TUCKER.
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Written by
A S J Tessimond |
In love's dances, in love's dances
One retreats and one advances,
One grows warmer and one colder,
One more hesitant, one bolder.
One gives what the other needed
Once, or will need, now unheeded.
One is clenched, compact, ingrowing
While the other's melting, flowing.
One is smiling and concealing
While the other's asking kneeling.
One is arguing or sleeping
While the other's weeping, weeping.
And the question finds no answer
And the tune misleads the dancer
And the lost look finds no other
And the lost hand finds no brother
And the word is left unspoken
Till the theme and thread are broken.
When shall these divisions alter?
Echo's answer seems to falter:
'Oh the unperplexed, unvexed time
Next time...one day...one day...next time!'
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