Favorite Poems

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James R. Osgood, 1877 - English poetry - 96 pages
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Page 47 - Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
Page 51 - That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but...
Page 55 - To BLOSSOMS FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
Page 20 - There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up and gone to bring in may. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have...
Page 22 - About the cart, hear, how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout ; Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some bless the cart ; some kiss the sheaves ; Some prank them up with oaken leaves...
Page 30 - Good morrow to the day so fair; Good morning, sir, to you; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew. Good morning to this primrose too; Good morrow to each maid; That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my Love is laid. Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee, Which bore my Love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th
Page 19 - Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth.
Page 11 - I write of youth, of love, and have access By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness ; I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece, Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris ; I sing...
Page 93 - Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! When the artless doctor sees No one hope, but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees, Sweet Spirit, comfort me...
Page 20 - And as a vapour or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again; So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

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