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upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,
| 2 |
soft, discontented eyes!
| 0 |
she still must keep the locket to allay
| 2 |
and the rude people rage with ignorant cries
| 0 |
skirting the stream.
| 2 |
"o lord, that didst smother mankind in thy flood,
| 0 |
the silence, and the rain.
| 2 |
is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
| 0 |
blood-dipped arrows, which savages make
| 0 |
i think i'll just call up my wife and tell her
| 2 |
the moon and the stars were anxious
| 0 |
they shaped our future; we but carve their names.
| 2 |
nor the president in his presidency, nor the rich in his great house.
| 3 |
in our embraces we again enfold her,
| 1 |
robe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds
| 1 |
in the twilight of age all things seem strange and phantasmal,
| 0 |
back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
| 2 |
the very gods arising mid their carven images:
| 2 |
ah! still, methinks, i hear them calling;
| 2 |
a wild and stormy sea;
| 0 |
"sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up
| 2 |
tis the djinns' wild streaming swarm
| 2 |
how many times we must have met
| 2 |
dark with more clouds than tempests are,
| 0 |
then the smile from her bright eyes faded and a flush came over her cheek
| 3 |
lowly and soft she said it; but spake out louder now:
| 2 |
the sower scatters broad his seed,
| 2 |
and thus each tint or shade which falls,
| 2 |
the dust of half a century lies
| 2 |
above the myriad roofs and spires rise;
| 2 |
and they whispered to each other:
| 2 |
then he stripped the shirt of wampum
| 2 |
at least if so we can, and by the head
| 2 |
here comes the cripple jane!" and by a fountain's side
| 0 |
to me that time did not appeire:
| 2 |
so neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen
| 2 |
the wondering rabbi sought the temple's gate.
| 2 |
are angel faces, silent and serene,
| 1 |
ef zeke had be'n the bigges' man
| 2 |
and when i bade the dream
| 2 |
and tip with feathers, orange and green,
| 2 |
or at the church, she ever bore herself
| 2 |
how nature to the soul is moored,
| 2 |
"rubadub! rubadub! wake and take the road again,
| 2 |
i do not keer a jot;
| 2 |
swifter was the hunter's rowing,
| 1 |
let the scared dreamer wake to see
| 2 |
(like essence-peddlers) thet'll make folks long to be without 'em,
| 2 |
as if we guessed what hers have been,
| 2 |
which goaded him in his distress
| 0 |
o so many, many, many
| 2 |
lord, remember me!"
| 2 |
far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
| 2 |
abloom by sacred streams
| 1 |
nathless, as hath been often tried,
| 2 |
i feel the road unroll,
| 2 |
and not be nearer therefore to the moon,
| 2 |
forelaid and taken, while he strove in vain
| 0 |
and country eyes, and quiet faces --
| 2 |
some come ridin' in top-buggies wid de w'eels all painted red,
| 2 |
when blighting was nearest.
| 0 |
i can see how you might. but i don't know!
| 2 |
the orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse,
| 3 |
pillars by madness multiplied;
| 0 |
"now the place where the accident occurred----"
| 2 |
a poet in his youth, and the cuckoo-bird
| 2 |
no rest that throbbing slave may ask,
| 0 |
o'er time's delusive tide.
| 0 |
“i’m going to put you on the farm next to it.”
| 2 |
no word for a while spake regin; but he hung his head adown
| 0 |
"he! patron!
| 2 |
three lives, three strides, three foot-prints in the sand;
| 2 |
till they have told their fill, could scarce express
| 2 |
the morning and the evening made his day.
| 2 |
"stella, see that grasshopper
| 2 |
of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers,
| 2 |
let us do our work as well,
| 2 |
we hear our mother call from deeps of time,
| 2 |
of brynhilda's love and the wrath of gudrun.
| 3 |
who digs last year's potato hill?--
| 2 |
those hours the ancient timepiece told,--
| 2 |
would split, for size of me.
| 2 |
in just the dress his century wore;
| 2 |
his song, though very sweet, was low and faint,
| 3 |
then to tell.
| 2 |
my winter sports begin.
| 2 |
envy and calumny and hate and pain,
| 0 |
the play is done,--the curtain drops,
| 2 |
and murmured a strange and solemn air;
| 0 |
the cloud is gone that wove the sandstone,
| 2 |
i see little and large sea-dots, some inhabited, some uninhabited;
| 2 |
time never did assuage;
| 2 |
that saw the cross without the bear.
| 2 |
the deer invites no longer
| 2 |
taught by the sorrows that his age had known
| 0 |
like slippers after shoes.--
| 2 |
and willing grow old
| 2 |
to paris, and you make no sign at all.
| 2 |
from the pulpit read the preacher, "goodman garvin and his wife
| 2 |
even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
| 3 |
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