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Poetry – Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not be but gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed – and gazed – but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me

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Poetry – Gathering Leaves

Spades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons. I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away. But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd into my face. I may load and unloadAgain and againTill I fill the whole shed,And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight,And since they grew dullerFrom contact with earth,Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use,But a crop is a crop,And who’s to say whereThe harvest shall stop? — Robert Frost

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The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be

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Poetry – Mandalay

BY THE old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! “Come you back to Mandalay,Where the old Flotilla lay:Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay ?On the road to Mandalay,Where the flyin’-fishes play,An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay! ‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,An’

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Poetry – The Children’s Hour

I hear in the chamber above me      The patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,      And voices soft and sweet. From my study, I see in the lamplight,      Descending the broad hall stair,Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,      And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence:      Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning together      To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway,      A sudden raid from the hall!By three doors left unguarded      They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret      O’er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they

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