Epitaph All beauty to pourtray,
Therein his duty lay,
And still through toilsome strife Duty to him was life—Most thankful still that duty Lay in the paths of beauty
To the memory of William Blake, a Painter and
Therein his duty lay,
And still through toilsome strife Duty to him was life—Most thankful still that duty Lay in the paths of beauty
To the memory of William Blake, a Painter and
On the first day the priest Could find no heart in the beast,
And two on the second day
And two on the second day
IN are the night-skirts left
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas
the shred of
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas
the shred of
RE is a big artist named Val,
The roughs' and the prize—fighters' pal:
The mind of a groom And the head of a broom Were Nature's endowments to Val
There is a Creator named God Whose creations are sometimes quite odd:
The roughs' and the prize—fighters' pal:
The mind of a groom And the head of a broom Were Nature's endowments to Val
There is a Creator named God Whose creations are sometimes quite odd:
Love hath a chamber all of imagery;
And there is one dim nook,
A little storied web wherein my
From leaf to leaf is read as in a book
And there is one dim nook,
A little storied web wherein my
From leaf to leaf is read as in a book
AH yes, exactly so; but when a man Has trundled out of England into France And half through Belgium, always in this prance Of steam, and still has stuck to his first plan— Blank verse or sonnets; and as he began Would end;—why, even the blankest v...
In whomsoe'er, since Poesy began,
A Poet most of all men we may scan,
Burns of all poets is the most a Man
A Poet most of all men we may scan,
Burns of all poets is the most a Man
