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| When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain |
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| When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know |
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| Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? / Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, |
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Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
and leaden eyed despairs |
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| Where's the cheek that doth not fade, / Too much gazed at? |
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| Where's the face / One would meet in every place? / Where's the voice, however soft, / One would hear so very oft? |
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| Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skiews, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful c |
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| Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves? |
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| Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud? |
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| Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory! |
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| You are always new, The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest. |
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| You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore. |
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| `If I should die', said I to myself, `I have left no immortal work behind me - nothing to make my friends proud of my memory - but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.' |
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