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65 Cards in this Set
- Front
- Back
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated |
To the Stone-cutters, Robinson Jeffers |
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Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara |
Hands, Robinson Jeffers |
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Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. |
Richard Cory, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Because he was a butcher and thereby |
Reuben Bright, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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"Where are you going to-night, to-night, -- |
John Evereldown, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- |
Aaron Stark, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Time was when his half million drew |
Bewick Finzer, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, And in the twilight wait for what will come. The leaves will whisper there of her, and some, Like flying words, will strike you as they fall; But go, and if you listen she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies— In eastern skies.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this, Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. Out of a grave I come to tell you this— To tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go, for the winds are tearing them away,— Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.
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Luke Havergal, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking. |
Miniver Cheevy, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night Over the hill between the town below And the forsaken upland hermitage That held as much as he should ever know On earth again of home, paused warily. The road was his with not a native near; And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon Again, and we may not have many more; The bird is on the wing, the poet says, And you and I have said it here before. Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light The jug that he had gone so far to fill, And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood, Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn, He stood there in the middle of the road Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn. Below him, in the town among the trees, Where friends of other days had honored him, A phantom salutation of the dead Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, He set the jug down slowly at his feet With trembling care, knowing that most things break; And only when assured that on firm earth It stood, as the uncertain lives of men Assuredly did not, he paced away, And with his hand extended paused again:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this In a long time; and many a change has come To both of us, I fear, since last it was We had a drop together. Welcome home!" Convivially returning with himself, Again he raised the jug up to the light; And with an acquiescent quaver said: "Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr. Flood— For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do." So, for the time, apparently it did, And Eben evidently thought so too; For soon amid the silver loneliness Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, Secure, with only two moons listening, Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—
"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out, The last word wavered; and the song being done, He raised again the jug regretfully And shook his head, and was again alone. There was not much that was ahead of him, And there was nothing in the town below— Where strangers would have shut the many doors That many friends had opened long ago. |
Mr. Flood's Party, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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Here where the wind is always north-north-east |
New England, Edwin Arlington Robinson |
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n the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said: "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter - bitter," he answered; "But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart." |
In the Desert, Stephen Crane |
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I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
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I Saw a Man Pursuing, Stephen Crane |
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A man feared that he might find an assassin; |
A Man Feared, Stephen Crane |
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THE WAYFARER, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. “Ha,” he said, 5 “I see that none has passed here In a long time.” Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife. “Well,” he mumbled at last, 10 “Doubtless there are other roads.” |
The Wayfarer, Stephen Crane |
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I have been one acquainted with the night. |
Acquainted with the Night, Robert Frost |
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Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast |
Desert Places, Robert Frost |
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I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, |
Design, Robert Frost |
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Some say the world will end in fire, |
Fire and Ice, Robert Frost |
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Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. |
Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost |
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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, |
The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost |
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We dance round in a ring and suppose, |
The Secret Sits, Robert Frost |
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She is as in a field a silken tent |
The Silken Tent, Robert Frost |
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Whose woods these are I think I know. My little horse must think it queer He gives his harness bells a shake The woods are lovely, dark and deep. |
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, RObert Frost |
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When I see birches bend to left and right |
Birches, Robert Frost |
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#1 on top 500 poets * Poet's Page* Poems * Comments * Stats * E-Books * Biography * Quotations * * * « Meeting And Passing * Mowing »
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, |
Mending Wall, Robert Frost |
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The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside him in her apron To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’ So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs. |
"Out, out--", Robert Frost |
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, The wilderness rose up to it, It took dominion every where. |
Anecdote of the Jar, Wallace Stevens |
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The houses are haunted |
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock, Wallace Stevens |
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At night, by the fire, |
Domination of Black, Wallace Stevens |
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I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII |
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, Wallace Stevens |
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One must have a mind of winter And have been cold a long time Of the January sun; and not to think Which is the sound of the land For the listener, who listens in the snow, |
The Snow Man, Wallace Stevens |
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Call the roller of big cigars, |
The Emperor of Ice-Cream, Wallace Stevens |
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Complacencies of the peignoir, and late 2 Why should she give her bounty to the dead? 3 Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. 4 She says, 'I am content when wakened birds, 5 She says, 'But in contentment I still feel 6 Is there no change of death in paradise? 7 Supple and turbulent, a ring of men 8 She hears, upon that water without sound, |
Sunday Morning, Wallace Stevens |
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I caught a tremendous fish |
The Fish, Elizabeth Bishop |
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September rain falls on the house. |
Sestina, Elizabeth Bishop |
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The art of losing isn't hard to master; |
One Art, Elizabeth Bishop |
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Oh, but it is dirty! |
Filling Station, Elizabeth Bishop |
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in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer old balloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's spring and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles far and wee |
In Just, E.E. Cummings |
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Buffalo Bill 's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death |
Buffalo Bill's, E.E. Cummings |
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i thank You God for most this amazing (i who have died am alive again today, how should tasting touching hearing seeing (now the ears of my ears awake and
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i thank You God for most this amazing, E.E. Cummings |
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maggie and milly and molly and may |
maggie and milly and molly and may, E.E. Cummings |
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"next to of course god america i He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water
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next to of course god america, i, E.E. Cummings |
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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond |
somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond, E.E. Cummings |
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anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did. Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone’s any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain |
anyone lived in a pretty how town, E.E. Cummings |
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i sing of Olaf glad and big whose warmest heart recoiled at war: a conscientious object-or his wellbelovéd colonel(trig westpointer most succinctly bred) took erring Olaf soon in hand; but--though an host of overjoyed noncoms(first knocking on the head him)do through icy waters roll that helplessness which others stroke with brushes recently employed anent this muddy toiletbowl, while kindred intellects evoke allegiance per blunt instruments-- Olaf(being to all intents a corpse and wanting any rag upon what God unto him gave) responds,without getting annoyed “I will not kiss your ******* flag” straightway the silver bird looked grave (departing hurriedly to shave) but--though all kinds of officers (a yearning nation’s blueeyed pride) their passive prey did kick and curse until for wear their clarion voices and boots were much the worse, and egged the firstclassprivates on his rectum wickedly to tease by means of skilfully applied bayonets roasted hot with heat-- Olaf(upon what were once knees) does almost ceaselessly repeat “there is some **** I will not eat” our president,being of which assertions duly notified threw the yellowsonofabitch into a dungeon,where he died Christ(of His mercy infinite) i pray to see;and Olaf,too preponderatingly because unless statistics lie he was more brave than me:more blond than you. |
i sing of Olaf glad and big, E.E. Cummings |
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no man,if men are gods;but if gods must be men,the sometimes only man is this (most common,for each anguish is his grief; and,for his joy is more than joy,most rare)
a fiend,if fiends speak truth;if angels burn
by their own generous completely light, an angel;or(as various worlds he’ll spurn rather than fail immeasurable fate) coward,clown,traitor,idiot,dreamer,beast—
such was a poet and shall be and is
—who’ll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam’’s architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain’s heartbeat in his hand |
no man, if men are gods, E.E. Cummings |
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pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness --- electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange; lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go |
pity this busy monster, manunkind, E.E. Cummings |
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Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand! |
Second Fig, Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. |
Recuerdo, Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink |
Love is Not All: It Is Not Meat nor Drink, Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,— Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking. |
I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear, Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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And you as well must die, belovèd dust, |
And You As Well Must Die, Beloved Dust, Edna St. VIncent Millay |
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Pity me not because the light of day |
Pity Me Not Because the Light of Day, Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. |
What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. |
The Negro Speaks of Rivers, Langston Hughes |
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The night is beautiful, |
My People, Langston Hughes |
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Well, son, I'll tell you: |
Mother to Son, Langston Hughes |
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I, too, sing America. |
I, Too, Langston Hughes |
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Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway. . . . He did a lazy sway. . . . To the tune o’ those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming from a black man’s soul. O Blues! In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan— “Ain’t got nobody in all this world, Ain’t got nobody but ma self. I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.”
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more— “I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied— I ain’t happy no mo’ And I wish that I had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead. |
The Weary Blues, Langston Hughes |
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Song for a Dark Girl Way Down South in Dixie Way Down South in Dixie Way Down South in Dixie |
Song for a Dark Girl, Langston Hughes |
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Landlord, landlord, |
Ballad of the Landlord, Langston Hughes |
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The instructor said, Go home and write I wonder if it's that simple? It's not easy to know what is true for you or me This is my page for English B. |
Theme for English B, Langston Hughes |
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What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode? |
Harlem, Langston Hughes |
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I went back the alley And I opened up my door. All her clothes was gone: She wasn’t home no more.
I pulled back the covers, I made down the bed. A whole lot of room Was the only thing I had. |
Homecoming, Langston Hughes |