Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweepThe darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!Though boundless snows the withered heath deform,And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,Yet shall the smile of social love repay,With mental light, the melancholy day!And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er,The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,How bright the fagots in his little hallBlaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!
For when thy folding-star arising showsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant hours, and elvesWho slept in buds the day,And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedgeAnd sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,The pensive pleasures sweetPrepare thy shadowy car.william collins
I remember the way we parted, The dayand the way we met; You hoped we were both broken-hearted, And knew we should both forget.algernon charles swinburne
For a dayand a night Love sang to us, played with us, Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled with the music he made with us, Made with our hands and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a dayand a night.algernon charles swinburne
Our little systems have their day; They have their dayand cease to be; Theyare but broken lights of thee, And thou,O Lord, art more than they.Tennyson
How can Life grant us boon of living, compensateFor dull grey ugliness and pregnant hateUnless we dareThe soul's dominion? Each time we make a choice, we payWith courage to behold the resistless day,And count it fair.amelia earhart
I think that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree.A tree whose hungry mouth is prestAgainst the earth's sweet flowing breast;A tree that looks at God all day,And lifts her leafy arms to pray;A tree that may in Summer wearA nest of robins in her hair;Upon whose bosom snow has lain;Who intimately lives with rain.Poems are made by fools like me,But only God can make a tree.joyce kilmer
Summe up at night what thou hast done by day;And in the morning what thou hast to do.Dresse and undresse thy soul; mark the decayAnd growth of it; if, with thy watch, that tooBe down then winde up both; since we shall beMost surely judg'd, make thy accounts agree.George Herbert
England’s sun was slowly setting o’er the hill-tops far away,Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,—He with footsteps slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she with lips so cold and white,Struggled to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”
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