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If Thou survive my well-contented day .
If to be absent were to be

If women could be fair, and yet not fond

I have had playmates, I have had companions

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I heard a thousand blended notes.

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I met a traveller from an antique land

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I'm wearing awa', Jean.

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In a drear-nighted December

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In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining

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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free.

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It is not Beauty I demand

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It is not growing like a tree

I travell❜d among unknown men

It was a lover and his lass

It was a summer evening.

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud.

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile

I wish I were where Helen lies.

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Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Life! I know not what thou art

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Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle.

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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore.

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Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold.

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Music, when soft voices die

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My days among the Dead are past.

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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My heart leaps up when I behold
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
My thoughts hold mortal strife.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his

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Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
Not, Celia, that I juster am.

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Now the golden Morn aloft
Now the last day of many days.

O blithe new-comer! I have heard.
O Brignall banks are wild and fair.
Of all the girls that are so smart
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
Of Nelson and the North

O Friend! I know not which way I must look

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Of this fair volume which we World do name

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Oft in the stilly night

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O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm
O listen, listen, ladies gay

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O lovers' eyes are sharp to see

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O Mary, at thy window be

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O me! what eyes hath love put in my head.

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O Mistress mine, where are you roaming
O my Luve's like a red, red rose

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Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
One more Unfortunate.

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O talk not to me of a name great in story

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd
Over the mountains

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms

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O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
O World! O Life! O Time.

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Souls of Poets dead and gone

She was a phantom of delight

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part
Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king

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Star that bringest home the bee

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Stern Daughter of the voice of God

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Surprized by joy-impatient as the wind

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Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes

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Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

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Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade
Swiftly walk over the western wave

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Take O take those lips away

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Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

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There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away

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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
The sun is warm, the sky is clear

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The World is too much with us; late and soon
The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
They that have power to hurt, and will do none
This is the month, and this the happy morn
This Life, which seems so fair

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Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright

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Timely blossom, Infant fair

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
Toll for the Brave

To me, fair Friend, you never can be old
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
'Twas on a lofty vase's side

Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea

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Under the greenwood tree

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying
Victorious men of earth, no more.

Waken, lords and ladies gay
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie
Were I as base as is the lowly plain
We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
We walk'd along, while bright and red
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night
Whenas in silks my Julia goes

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When Britain first at Heaven's command
When first the fiery-mantled Sun

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When God at first made Man

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When he who adores thee has left but the name
When icicles hang by the wall

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When I consider how my light is spent

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When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When I have fears that I may cease to be
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
When in the chronicle of wasted time
When lovely woman stoops to folly

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When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame

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Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant

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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more

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You meaner beauties of the night.

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R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers

September, 1872.

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