My Madonna - Robert W. Service
I haled me a woman from the street,
Shameless, but, oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model’s seat
And I painted her sitting there.
I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the Worst had been the Best.
She laughed at my picture and went away.
Then came, with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say;
“’Tis Mary, the Mother of God.”
So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,
Where you and all may see.
Th' Next Morning John Hartley
nobody loses all the time E. E. Cummings
Old Fashioned Roses James Whitcomb Riley
The Road Not Taken Robert Frost
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere: A Fragment Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Sonnet XII Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnet XIV Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Topsy-Turvy World William Brighty Rands
Two Loves Lucy Maud Montgomery
The Lord's Prayer - King James Version (KJV)
9 Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.
10 Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
11 Give us this day our daily bread.
12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
How Doth the Little Crocodile - Lewis Carroll
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
Knee Deep In June James Whitcomb Riley
How Doth the Little Busy Bee - Isaac Watts
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
An End - Christina G. Rossetti
Love, strong as Death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the Spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
He left us; he would not stay
For Autumn twilight cold and grey.
Sit we by his grave, and sing
He is gone away.
To few chords and sad and low
Sing we so:
Be our eyes fixed on the grass
Shadow-veiled as the years pass
While we think of all that was
In the long ago.
La Canción Del Pirata José de Espronceda
Corruption Henry Vaughan
Dover Beach Matthew Arnold
Each In His Own Tongue William Herbert Carruth
The Highwayman Alfred Noyes
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