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Heather

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  1. Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days. But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. Sir Walter Raleigh - 'Even such is Time' Supposedly written on the night before his execution.
  2. I think she was thinking of Blake - her character felt he was born to take the wrong path. Listen to me, as when ye heard our father Sing long ago the songs of other shores: Listen to me, and then in chorus gather All your deep voices, as you pull your oars: Fair these broad meads,—these hoary woods are grand; But we are exiles from our Fathers’ Land. From the lone shieling of the misty Island Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas; Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, And we in drea
  3. Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to Endless Night We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro the Eye Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day William Blake - from 'Augeries of Innocence'
  4. My name is Parrot, a bird of Paradise, By nature devised of a wonderous kind, Daintily dieted with divers delicate spice, Till Euphrates, that flood, driveth me into Ind; Where men of that country by fortune me find, And send me to great ladies of estate. Then Parrot must have an almond or a date. For Parrot is no churlish chough nor no flecked pie, Parrot is no Pendugum that men call a gairling, Parrot is no woodcock nor no butterfly, Parrot is no stammering stare, that men call a starling; But Parrot is my own dear heart and my dear darling; Melpomene, that fair maid,
  5. John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw, But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo! Robert Burns - 'Joh
  6. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. W.B. Yeats - 'Wh
  7. At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scatter'd bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, For if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there; here on this lowly ground Teach me how to repent
  8. Sorry - I didn't scroll down far enough, and thought Meg's poem was the last. Can we make 'day' the link word instead of 'sun'?
  9. Rise heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise Without delays, Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise With him mayst rise: That, as his death calcined thee to dust, His life may make thee gold, and much more just. Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part With all thy art. The cross taught all wood to resound his name, Who bore the same. His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key Is best to celebrate this most high day. Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song Pleasant and long: Or since all music is but three parts vied And multiplied;
  10. O, to be in England Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— That's the wise thrush; he
  11. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed Our shows are more than will, for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. Shakespeare - Twelfth Night II/iv
  12. I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep For Famagusta and the hidden sun That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire; And all those ships were certainly so old— Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun, Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges, The pirate Genoese Hell-raked them till they rolled Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold. But now through friendly seas they softly run, Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea
  13. Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea, And still the sea is salt. A.E. Housman - 'Stars, I have seen them fall'
  14. The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou wouldst have thought some fairy’s hand ’Twixt poplars straight the osier wand In many a freakish knot had twined, Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint, Showed many a prophet, and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst, his Cross of Red Triumphant Michael brandished, And trampled the Apo
  15. Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never
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