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September 1, 1802, By: William Wordsworth
We had a female Passenger who cameFrom Calais with us, spotless in array,A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,Yet downcast as a…
Scorn Not The Sonnet, By: William Wordsworth
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart; the melodyOf this small…
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Spring Clippings, By: Mary Bone
My rose vines are trimmed back.Winter’s harsh climate dida number on them.The clipping continue along withover grown toenails lyingon the porch.