Sonnet XII - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,—
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,—
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
Sonnet XIV Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Topsy-Turvy World William Brighty Rands
Two Loves Lucy Maud Montgomery
The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost - O caminho não percorrido (PT)
Dois caminhos divergiam num bosque amarelo
Triste por não poder seguir os dois
E por ser apenas um viajante, segui
Um deles o mais longe que pude com o olhar,
Até o ponto onde ele se perde no mato
Tomei o outro que me pareceu mais belo,
Oferecendo talvez a vantagem
De uma relva que se podia pisar,
Embora o estado de ambos fosse o mesmo
E naquela manhã eles fossem iguais
Ambos estavam sob relvas que nenhum passo
Enegrecera. Oh deixei
Para outra vez o primeiro!
Mas como sabia que ao caminho se juntam
Os caminhos, duvidei que um dia voltasse.
Hei de contar isto suspirando,
Daqui a muito tempo, nalgum lugar:
Dois caminhos divergiam num bosque, e eu
Segui o menos trilhado,
E foi o que fez toda a diferença.
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere: A Fragment Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The Next Morning - John Hartley
nobody loses all the time E. E. Cummings
Old Fashioned Roses James Whitcomb Riley
My Madonna - Robert W. Service
I haled me a woman from the street,
Shameless, but, oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model’s seat
And I painted her sitting there.
I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the Worst had been the Best.
She laughed at my picture and went away.
Then came, with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say;
“’Tis Mary, the Mother of God.”
So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,
Where you and all may see.
The Lord's Prayer - King James Version (KJV)
9 Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.
10 Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
11 Give us this day our daily bread.
12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
How Doth the Little Crocodile - Lewis Carroll
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
Knee Deep In June James Whitcomb Riley
How Doth the Little Busy Bee - Isaac Watts
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
An End - Christina G. Rossetti
Love, strong as Death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the Spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
He left us; he would not stay
For Autumn twilight cold and grey.
Sit we by his grave, and sing
He is gone away.
To few chords and sad and low
Sing we so:
Be our eyes fixed on the grass
Shadow-veiled as the years pass
While we think of all that was
In the long ago.
La Canción Del Pirata José de Espronceda
Corruption Henry Vaughan
Dover Beach Matthew Arnold
Each In His Own Tongue William Herbert Carruth
The Highwayman Alfred Noyes
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