First Line | Poem |
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, | |
I leant upon a coppice gate | |
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, | |
Turning and turning in the widening gyre | |
In Flanders fields the poppies blow | |
April is the cruellest month, breeding | |
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, | |
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright | |
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, | |
On either side the river lie | |
Anger be now your song, immortal one, | |
Arms and the man I sing, the first who came, | |
Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit | |
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, | |
In the middle of the journey of our life | |
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. | |
The day you died I went into the dirt, | |
So much depends | |
The Dutch had never seen a flower | |
The time you won your town the race | |
| First Line | Poem |
I imagine this midnight moment's forest: | |
He, who navigated with success | |
I've heard there was a secret chord | |
Nobody stuffs the world in at your eyes. | |
Dull water spirit--and Protean god | |
Let us go then, you and I, | |
Whose woods these are I think I know. | |
I celebrate myself, and sing myself, | |
Because I could not stop for Death - | |
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! | |
The Frost performs its secret ministry, | |
My first thought was, he lied in every word, | |
You do not do, you do not do | |
Pearl, to delight a prince's day, | |
So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by | |
When the siege and assault ceased at Troy, and the city | |
i thank You God for most this amazing | |
The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back | |
Through sepia air the boarders come and go, | |
Between my finger and my thumb | |
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