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Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Alas! they had been friends in youth
All after pleasures as I rid one day.
All the world's a stage

And did those feet in ancient time

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And is there care in heaven? And is there love?

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And like a dying lady, lean and pale

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Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
As through the wild green hills of Wyre.

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At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears

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Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying
Break, break, break.

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Breathes there the man with soul so dead

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By all means use sometimes to be alone
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day

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Come then, my friend, my genius! Come along

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Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away

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Fain would I change that note

Farewell to the Land where the gloom of my Glory
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea

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For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see

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Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings

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I am yet what I am who cares, or knows?

I cannot ope mine eyes

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I climb'd a hill as light fell short

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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank

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I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way

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I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree

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I wish I were where Helen lies.

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If thou wast still, O stream

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If you can keep your head when all about you

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Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime

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Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan.

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Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul
Me that 'ave been what I've been

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Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
Music, when soft voices die

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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here
My heart leaps up when I behold

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My true love hath my heart, and I have his

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No coward soul is mine

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note

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Now, God be thank'd Who has match'd us with His hour
Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile.

Now the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger

O Living Will that shalt endure

O Mary, go and call the cattle home

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done

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O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
O world! O life! O time!

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Of Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Oft in the stilly night

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Oh! hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story

Oh, to be in England

Oh, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words?
Old Meg she was a Gipsy.

On a poet's lips I slept

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble

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One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee.

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Orpheus with his lute made trees

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Others apart sat on a Hill retired

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Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd .
Over hill, over dale.

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Speak: thy strong words may never pass away

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king

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Swiftly walk o'er the western wave.

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

Tell me where is Fancy bred

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That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this
The captain stood on the carronade:

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First lieutenant,'

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The sun descending in the west

The Sun does arise

The sun is warm, the sky is clear

The world is too much with us; late and soon
There be none of Beauty's daughters

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
There is sweet music here that softer falls

There lived a wife at Usher's well

There was a roaring in the wind all night

This is the weather the cuckoo likes

Thou art light and thou art free

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness

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Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank

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Turning from these with awe, once more I raised 'Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings

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Waken, lords and ladies gay

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet.

We wander'd to the Pine Forest

We who are old, old and gay

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Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf

Whence and what art thou, execrable shape

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When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame
When the voices of children are heard on the green
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
When winds that move not its calm surface sweep.
Where shall the lover rest?

Where the bee sucks, there suck I

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