Стихи и рассказы из категории canto

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I
While great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,
And the demeanour, changed and cold,
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IS done--the night has pass'd away;
And, basking in the sunny day,
The laughing fountain's waters bear No record of each burning tear;-- The silent echoes give no sound Of shriek or moan; and nothing round Can tell what breaking hearts h...
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"MY First - but don't suppose," he said,"I'm setting you a riddle -Is - if your Victim be in bed,
Don't touch the curtains at his head,
But take them in the middle, "And wave them slowly in and out,
While drawing...
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Florence, rejoice
For thou o'er land and sea So spread'st thy pinions that the fame of thee Hath reached no less into the depths of Hell
So noble were the five I found to dwell Therein — thy sons — whence shame accrues to me And no great...
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ON'T they consult the 'Victims,' though
"I said
"They should, by rights,
Give them a chance - because, you know,
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NE winter night, at half-past nine,
Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,
I had come home, too late to dine,
And supper, with cigars and wine,
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"OH, when I was a little Ghost,
A merry time had we
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered
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ND did you really walk," said I,"On such a wretched night
I always fancied Ghosts could fly -If not exactly in the sky,
Yet at a fairish height
" "It's very well," said he, "for
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As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
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November's sky is chill and drear,
November's leaf is red and sear:
Late, gazing down the steepy
That hems our little garden in,
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I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
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LD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson,
Rip,
Of the paternal block a genuine chip,—­A lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap;
He, like his grandsire, took a mighty nap,
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AT'S this
" I pondered
"Have I slept
Or can I have been drinking
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Nothing so difficult as a
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
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When amatory poets sing their
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
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