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AfEASURES OF VERSE. |
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There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin ;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
Campbell.
I was a child, and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee ; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
Poe.
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tombr
\ arise and unbuild it again.
Shtlley. |
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