Стихи и рассказы из категории years

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Two honder year ago, de worl' is purty slow Even folk upon dis contree 's not so smart,
Den who is travel roun' an' look out de pleasan' groun' For geev' de Yankee peop' a leetle start
I 'll tole you who dey were
de beeg rough voyag...
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VE is dying
Why then, let it die
Trample it down, that it die more fast
What is a rose that has lost its bloom
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I AM worn out with dreams;
A weather-worn, marble
Among the streams;
And all day long I
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New Year's Day—everything is in blossom
I feel about average
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O brothers mine, to-day we
Where half a century sweeps our ken,
Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand,
Struck off our bonds and made us men
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NG years have past since last I stood Alone amid this mountain scene,
Unlike the future which I dreamed,
How like my future it has been
A cold grey sky o'erhung with clouds,
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What is the song the stars sing
(And a million songs are as song of one) This is the song the stars sing: (Sweeter song's none) One to set, and many to sing, (And a million songs are as song of one) One to stand, and many to cling, The many t...
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Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
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I The other night I had a dream, most clear And comforting,
In every line, a crystal sphere,
And full of intimate and secret cheer
Therefore I will
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In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves t...
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Ninghua,
Qingliu,
Guihua —What narrow paths, deep woods and slippery moss
Whither are we bound today
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After a hundred
Nobody knows the place, —Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace
Weeds triumphant ranged,
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The room is full of shadow; you can hear, indistinctly, the sad soft whispering of two children
Their foreheads lean forward, still heavy with dreams, beneath the long white bed-curtain which shudders and rises
Outside the birds crowd to...
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This nothingness that feeds upon itself:
Pencils that turn to water in the hand,
Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,
Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,
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The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,
And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree
’‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away
’—‘stand clear of the blazing shoots
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