Стихи и рассказы из категории england

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The eastward spurs tip backward from the sun
Nights runs an obscure tide round cape and bayand beats with boats of cloud up from the seaagainst this sheer and limelit granite head
Swallow the spine of range; be dark
O lonely air
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Ye Mariners of England That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze— Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe
And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow,— While...
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And when, at
Escaped,-so many a green slope built on
Betwixt me and the enemy's house behind,
I dared to rest, or wander,-like a
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Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom, Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom, Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home
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From tangled brake and trellised bower Bring every bud that blows,
But never will you find the flower To match an English rose
It blooms with more than city grace,
Though rustic and apart;
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Soon after I’d paid
My sixty
Or seventy pence,
I found myself
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And what of thee,
O Lincoln's Land
What gloom Is darkening above the Sunset Sea
Vowed Champion of Liberty, deplume Thy war-crest, bow thy knee,
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Too long have Tyranny and Power combined,
To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind;
Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe,
And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe
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I remember the grey slithers of rain,
The jocular driver,
As I boarded the bus
At Temple Meads,
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An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,--Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who
Through public scorn,--mud from a muddy spring,--Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
T...
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Praise thou with praise unending, The Master of the Wine;
To all their portions sending Himself he mingled thine:
The sea-born flush of morning, The sea-born hush of night,
The East wind comfort scorning, And the North wind driving ...
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A cloud has lowered that shall not soon pass o'er
The world takes sides: whether for impious aims With Tyranny whose bloody toll enflames A generous people to heroic war;
Whether with Freedom, stretched in her own gore,
Whose pleadi...
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