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mteb
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PoemSentimentClassification

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Community
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int64
that, following this slight trace,
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but now for me than you—the other way.
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who wrote this modest version i suppose
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--the drones of the community; they feed
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the echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
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and make the liveliest monkey melancholy.
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and, between the river flowing and the fair green trees a-growing,
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you'll not want business, for we need a lot
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still, upon a flower,
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god prosper long our noble king,
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where the moloch of slavery sitteth on high,
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leave the garden walls, where blow
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it's a pretty early start.
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he takes you from your easy-chair,
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accept the gift which i have wrought
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long-drawn bill of wine and beer
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a crow dot sat a-squawkin', "i's a mockin'-bird."
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a day's experunce 'd prove to ye, ez easy 'z pull a trigger.
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euryalus stood list’ning while he spoke,
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moonstruck with love, and this still thames had heard
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yea, all the world it might be, and all sounds of the earth were stilled
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as hebe's foot bore nectar round
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till, fur 'z i know, there aint an inch thet i could lay my han' on,
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she listening sate.
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from alton bay to sandwich dome,
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even now eclipses the descending moon!--
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some thought of me, a last fond prayer
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ode read at the one hundredth anniversary of the fight at concord bridge
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for wanderings sad and lone.
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and my white cottage--plain.
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"onaway! my heart sings to thee,
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begins, but endeth nevermore;
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that throng our pilgrimage. its sympathy,
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valentines, paper and tinsel,
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when lips and heart refuse to part again
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waiting the flutter of his homemade fly;
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whereto we claim sole title by our toil,
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our hope, our remembrance, our trust,
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that _she_ should walk beside him on the rocks
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far out, in peace, the white man's sail
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of the bivouac fire apart,
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such civil war is in my love and hate,
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none will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!
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that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.
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"sir, i have dreamed of you. i pray you, sir,
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the message is not like what i have learned
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the beacon-light that forth they held
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as george commands, let him be wrong or right,
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luck obeys the downright striker; from the hollow core,
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forever quivering o'er his task,
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radiant as moses from the mount, he stood
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wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?'
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and seek the danger i was forc’d to shun.
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where your hair from your forehead swerves,
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down the dark future, through long generations,
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but she always ran away and left
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with such vehement force and might
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yet both in different colours hide their art,
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his regal seat, surrounded by his friends.
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thinks i, the down lies dreaming
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vain cries--throughout the streets thousands pursued
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and all their echoes, mourn;
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and what then doth he gather? if we know,
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through the salt sea foam,
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does beauty slight you from her gay abodes?
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yet was this period my time of joy:
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from the fair brow; she, rising, only said,
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still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
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his silent sandals swept the mossy green;
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nightly down the river going,
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their first-born brother as a god.
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but half the secret told,
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and like the others does not slip
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bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
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in town, an' not the leanest runt
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so thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
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and so i should be loved and mourned to-night.
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and _channing_, with his bland, superior look,
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the head that lay against your knees
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is shorter than a snake's delay,
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sooner, augustine, sooner far, shall i
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in every health we drink.
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the end of the play.
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by death's frequented ways,
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how your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead;
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rejection of his humanness
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to sunset they would sip of the tea, drink of the beer, and eat of the
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to his ears there came a murmur of far seas beneath the wind
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the one good man in the world who knows me, --
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faint voices lifted shrill with pain
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an', fust you knowed on, back come charles the second;
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in the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore
0