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My brother kneels, so saith Kabir,

To stone and brass in heathen-wise,

But in my brother’s voice I hear

My own unanswered agonies.

His God is as his fates assign,

His prayer is all the world’s and mine,


The Prayer - Rudyard Kipling

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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays?
O, fearful meditation! Where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


Sonnet 65 - William Shakespeare


[Pretty proud of getting brass and stone in here :lol:]

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I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”


Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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I have a weakness for Victorian 'Parlour Poetry', so I offer you:


The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck,

Shone round him o’er the dead.


Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike form.


The flames rolled on – he would not go,

Without his father’s word;

That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.


He called aloud – ‘Say, father, say

If yet my task is done?’

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.


‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried,

‘If I may yet be gone!’

– And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.


Upon his brow he felt their breath

And in his waving hair;

And look’d from that lone post of death,

In still yet brave despair.


And shouted but once more aloud,

‘My father! must I stay?’

While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.


They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.


There came a burst of thunder sound –

The boy – oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea!


With mast, and helm and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part,

But the noblest thing which perished there,

Was that young faithful heart.


Casabianca - Felicia Hemans (1793 - 1835)

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Restless and hot two children lay
Plagued with uneasy dreams,
Each wandered lonely through false day
A twilight torn with screams.

True to the bed-time story, Ben
Pursued his wounded bear,
Ann dreamed of chattering monkey men,
Of snakes twined in her hair...

Now high aloft above the town
The thick clouds gather and break,
A flash, a roar, and rain drives down:
Aghast the young things wake.

Trembling for what their terror was,
Surprised by instant doom,
With lightning in the looking glass,
Thunder that rocks the room.

The monkeys' paws patter again,
Snakes hiss and flash their eyes:
The bear roars out in hideous pain:
Ann prays: her brother cries.

They cannot guess, could not be told
How soon comes careless day,
With birds and dandelion gold,
Wet grass, cool scents of May. 


Thunder At Night, Robert Graves 

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Furry Bear


If I were a bear,
And a big bear too,
I shouldn't much care
If it froze or snew;
I shouldn't much mind
If it snowed or friz--
I'd be all fur-lined
With a coat like his!


For I'd have fur boots and a brown fur wrap,
And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap.
I'd have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws.
And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws.
With a big brown furry-down up to my head,
I'd sleep all the winter in a big fur bed.


A.A. Milne

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I made my song a coat 

Covered with embroideries 

Out of old mythologies 

From heel to throat; 

But the fools caught it, 

Wore it in the world’s eyes 

As though they’d wrought it. 

Song, let them take it

For there’s more enterprise 

In walking naked.


A Coat by William Butler Yeats

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My mother groand! my father wept.

Into the dangerous world I leapt:

Helpless, naked, piping loud;

Like a fiend hid in a cloud.


Struggling in my fathers hands:

Striving against my swaddling bands:

Bound and weary I thought best

To sulk upon my mothers breast.


Infant Sorrow - William Blake



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I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:


For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.


I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud - William Wordsworth

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To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree

To the very root of the family tree

Were a task as rash as ridiculous:

Through antediluvian mists as thick

As London fog such a line to pick

Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,

Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.



It wouldn't require much verbal strain

To trace the Kill-man, perchance, to Cain;

But, waiving all such digressions,

Suffice it, according to family lore,

A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore,

Who was famed for his great possessions.



Tradition said he feather'd his nest

Through an Agricultural Interest

In the Golden Age of Farming;

When golden eggs were laid by the geese,

And Colehian sheep wore a golden fleece,

And golden pippins - the sterling kind

Of Hesperus - now so hard to find -

Made Horticulture quite charming!


 Opening stanzas of Miss Killmansegg and Her Precious Leg - Thomas Hood

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Bolt and bar the shutter, 
For the foul winds blow: 
Our minds are at their best this night, 
And I seem to know 
That everything outside us is 
Mad as the mist and snow. 

Horace there by Homer stands, 
Plato stands below, 
And here is Tully's open page.

How many years ago 
Were you and I unlettered lads 
Mad as the mist and snow? 

You ask what makes me sigh, old friend, 
What makes me shudder so? 
I shudder and I sigh to think 
That even Cicero 
And many-minded Homer were 
Mad as the mist and snow.


Mad as the Mist and Snow, William Butler Yeats

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I found the letter in a cardboard box,

Unfamous history. I read the words.

The ink was frail and brown, the paper dry

After so many years of being kept.

The letter was a soldier's, from the front—

Conveyed his love and disappointed hope

Of getting leave. It's cancelled now, he wrote.

My luck is at the bottom of the sea.


Outside the sun was hot; the world looked bright;

I heard a radio, and someone laughed.

I did not sing, or laugh, or love the sun,

Within the quiet room I thought of him,

My father killed, and all the other men,

Whose luck was at the bottom of the sea.


The Son - Clifford Dyment

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Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.


I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,


Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?


Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Edited by poppy

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There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
From Childe Harold, Canto iv, verse 178 - George Gordon Byron

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Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   


My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   


He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   


The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

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