A Collection Of Great Poems

Discussion in 'Poetry and Lyrics Forum' started by esgallindeion, Mar 10, 2005.

  1. esgallindeion

    esgallindeion Minstrel Knight

    I think what this forum has needed for a long time is a thread devoted to great poems from great authors as a source of inspiration and also for people to get introduced to good poetry.

    So, just post your favourite poems from your favourite authors, but don't just post for the sake of posting; make sure its something really good. And devote one post for only one poem to make it clearer.
  2. esgallindeion

    esgallindeion Minstrel Knight

    By Rudyard Kipling

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

    If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two imposters just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!
  3. tejas

    tejas ..........

    I love this poem. Its been included in our English Syllabus this year. I know it by heart. One of Kipling's best.
  4. rev

    rev New Member

    yeah..."if" is one of the most complete poems ever written. I know it by heart too. It's funny how it's so true at certain situations.

    This one, I love for it's sheer simplicity and sweetness.

    Ride A Wild Horse - Hannah Kahn

    Ride a wild horse
    with purple wings
    Striped yellow and black
    except his head
    which must be red.

    Ride a wild horse
    against the sky -
    hold tight to his wings

    before you die
    whatever else
    you leave undone
    once, ride a wild horse
    into the sun.
  5. tejas

    tejas ..........

    Im sure most of you have already read this. The poem and the concept both are extremely popular.

    The Seven Ages Of Man
    By William Shakespeare

    All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players;
    They have their exits and their entrances,
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
    And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capan lined,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
    Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
    His youthful nose, well saved, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
  6. esgallindeion

    esgallindeion Minstrel Knight

    The Road Less Travelled by Robert Frost

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To 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 there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In 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 telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.

    -Robert Frost

    One of my all time favourite poets. I love his style; and his endings are beyond compare.
  7. tejas

    tejas ..........

    Yeah, i love that poem. And if I'm not mistaken, its called "The Road Not Taken". Anyway, all the same, its a lovely poem.


    Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening
    By Robert Frost

    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.
    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound's the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.
    The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.


    My other favourite among Frost's poems.
  8. rockin'away

    rockin'away Banned

    wow nice poems....
  9. madhura

    madhura pani poori yum yum ....

    Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead
    -by Alfred Lord Tennyson

    Home they brought her warrior dead:
    She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
    All her maidens, watching, said,
    ‘She must weep or she will die.’

    Then they praised him, soft and low,
    Called him worthy to be loved,
    Truest friend and noblest foe;
    Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

    Stole a maiden from her place,
    Lightly to the warrior stepped,
    Took the face-cloth from the face;
    Yet she neither moved nor wept.

    Rose a nurse of ninety years,
    Set his child upon her knee—
    Like summer tempest came her tears—
    ‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’

    i also like his " into the valley of death, rode the six hundred " one .....
  10. esgallindeion

    esgallindeion Minstrel Knight

    "I am the only being whose doom..."

    I am the only being whose doom
    No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
    I never caused a thought of gloom
    A smile of joy since I was born

    In secret pleasure - secret tears
    This changeful life has slipped away
    As friendless after eighteen years
    As lone as on my natal day

    There have been times I cannot hide
    There have been times when this was drear
    When my sad soul forgot its pride
    And longed for one to love me here

    But those were in the early glow
    Of feelings since subdued by care
    And they have died so long ago
    I hardly now believe they were

    First melted off the hope of youth
    Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
    And then experience told me truth
    In mortal bosoms never grew

    'Twas grief enough to think mankind
    All hollow servile insincere -
    But worse to trust to my own mind
    And find the same corruption there

    Emily Jane Brontë
  11. rev

    rev New Member

    wow.... I hadn't heard of this Emily Bronte's poem. It's real good.
  12. rev

    rev New Member

    This may seem quite long but if you start....you'll read till the end. It has to be the best love ballad ever written.

    The Highwayman - By Alfred Noyes

    The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came riding-
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
    His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

    And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord's daughter,
    The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

    "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
    Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
    (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
    When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching-
    King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
    And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
    "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
    She heard the dead man say-
    Look for me by moonlight;
    Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
    Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
    Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

    Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
    ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
    not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding,
    Riding, riding!
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
    Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
    Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

    * * * * * *

    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes riding-
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
    And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
  13. tejas

    tejas ..........

    FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
    Of five long winters! and again I hear
    These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
    With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
    Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
    That on a wild secluded scene impress
    Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
    The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
    The day is come when I again repose
    Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
    These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
    Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
    Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
    'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
    These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
    Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
    Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
    Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
    With some uncertain notice, as might seem
    Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
    Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
    The Hermit sits alone.
    These beauteous forms,
    Through a long absence, have not been to me
    As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
    But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
    Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
    In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
    Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
    And passing even into my purer mind,
    With tranquil restoration:--feelings too
    Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
    As have no slight or trivial influence
    On that best portion of a good man's life,
    His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
    Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
    To them I may have owed another gift,
    Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
    In which the burthen of the mystery,
    In which the heavy and the weary weight
    Of all this unintelligible world,
    Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
    In which the affections gently lead us on,--
    Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
    And even the motion of our human blood
    Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
    In body, and become a living soul:
    While with an eye made quiet by the power
    Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
    We see into the life of things.
    If this
    Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft--
    In darkness and amid the many shapes
    Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
    Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
    Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
    How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
    O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
    How often has my spirit turned to thee!
    And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
    With many recognitions dim and faint,
    And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
    The picture of the mind revives again:
    While here I stand, not only with the sense
    Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
    That in this moment there is life and food
    For future years. And so I dare to hope,
    Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
    I came among these hills; when like a roe
    I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
    Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
    Wherever nature led: more like a man
    Flying from something that he dreads, than one
    Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
    (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
    And their glad animal movements all gone by)
    To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
    What then I was. The sounding cataract
    Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
    Their colours and their forms, were then to me
    An appetite; a feeling and a love,
    That had no need of a remoter charm,
    By thought supplied, nor any interest
    Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
    And all its aching joys are now no more,
    And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
    Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
    Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
    Abundant recompence. For I have learned
    To look on nature, not as in the hour
    Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
    The still, sad music of humanity,
    Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
    To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
    A presence that disturbs me with the joy
    Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
    Of something far more deeply interfused,
    Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
    And the round ocean and the living air,
    And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
    A motion and a spirit, that impels
    All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
    And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
    A lover of the meadows and the woods,
    And mountains; and of all that we behold
    From this green earth; of all the mighty world
    Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
    And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
    In nature and the language of the sense,
    The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
    The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
    Of all my moral being.
    Nor perchance,
    If I were not thus taught, should I the more
    Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
    For thou art with me here upon the banks
    Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
    My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
    The language of my former heart, and read
    My former pleasures in the shooting lights
    Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
    May I behold in thee what I was once,
    My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
    Knowing that Nature never did betray
    The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
    Through all the years of this our life, to lead
    From joy to joy: for she can so inform
    The mind that is within us, so impress
    With quietness and beauty, and so feed
    With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
    Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
    Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
    The dreary intercourse of daily life,
    Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
    Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
    Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
    Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
    And let the misty mountain-winds be free
    To blow against thee: and, in after years,
    When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
    Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
    Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
    Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
    For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
    If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
    Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
    Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
    And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
    If I should be where I no more can hear
    Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
    Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
    That on the banks of this delightful stream
    We stood together; and that I, so long
    A worshipper of Nature, hither came
    Unwearied in that service: rather say
    With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
    Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
    That after many wanderings, many years
    Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
    And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
    More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!​
    A few lines above tintern abbey by William Wordsworth.
  14. d_ist_urb_ed

    d_ist_urb_ed Genuflect b*tches!

    ^We had this in ICSE syllabus, one of the better poems in Images of Life.
  15. tejas

    tejas ..........

    The above Wordsworth poem I posted, in my opinion is his greatest work. Just defines what he is all about.
  16. esgallindeion

    esgallindeion Minstrel Knight

    highwayman and Stopping by woods on a snowy evening were two poems I did in school... quite nice... That wordsworth one is a real classic, tejas.

    This is one of my favs as well -

    The Tyger
    - William Blake

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forest of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, and what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? and what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
  17. tejas

    tejas ..........

    Nice poem essi.

    This one, is not very famous, but I like it a lot for some reason.

    When I'm dead my dearest

    When I am dead, my dearest,
    Sing no sad songs for me;
    Plant thou no roses at my head,
    Nor shady cypress tree:
    Be the green grass above me
    With showers and dewdrops wet;
    And if thou wilt, remember,
    And if thou wilt, forget.
    I shall not see the shadows,
    I shall not feel the rain;
    I shall not hear the nightingale
    Sing on, as if in pain:
    And dreaming through the twilight
    That doth not rise nor set,
    Haply I may remember,
    And haply may forget.

    ~Christina Rossetti
  18. Bristy

    Bristy ...

    The Telephone
    ---------(Robert Frost)

    "When I was just as far as I could walk
    From here today,
    There was an hour
    All still
    When leaning with my head against a flower
    I heard you talk.
    Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say--
    You spoke from that flower on the windowsill--
    Do you remember what it was you said?"

    "First tell me what it was you thought you heard."

    "Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
    I leaned my head,
    And holding by the stalk,
    I listened and I thought I caught the word--
    What was it? Did you call me by my name?
    Or did you say--
    Someone said 'Come'--I heard it as I bowed."

    "I may have thought as much, but not aloud."

    "Well, so I came."

    This is not a famous one .I guess.....but I love this poem...
  19. Bristy

    Bristy ...

    Ami Jodi Hotam(If I were)

    Jibanananda Das(Bangali poet) never ceases to amaze me.
    I can be at ease with every single of his poem, churning the
    inner and outer charms of his works, which transcend time and space.
    Here is a gem with English translation.
    The poem transcends time and space. No matter where you find the natural landscape pictured in this poem, the serene Bengali wilderness,the North American wilderness, ..., you'll find it fit for everywhere,it's universal.

    dunno u guys ll like it or not. but I like it a lot....

    Ami Jodi Hotam

    Ami jodi hotam bonohangso;
    Bonohongsi hote jodi tumi;
    Kono ek digonter Jolsirhi nodeer dhare
    Dhankheter kachhe
    Chhipchhipe shorer bhitor
    Ek nirala neerhe,

    Tahole aj ei phalguner rate
    Jhauyer shakhar pechhone cha(n)d uthhte dekhe
    Amra nimnobhumir joler gondho chherhe
    Akasher rupali shoyser bhitor ga bhasiye ditam -
    Tomar pakhnai amar palok, amar pakhnai tomar rokter spondon -
    Neel akashe khoi kheter sonali phuler moto ajotsoro tara,
    Shirees boner sobuj romosh neerhe
    Sonar dimer moto
    Phalguner cha(n)d |

    Hoito gulir shobdo:
    Amader tirjhok gotisrot,
    Amader pakhae pistoner ullas,
    Amader konthhe uttar haoar gan |

    Hoito gulir shobdo abar:
    Amader stobdota,
    Amader shanti |
    Ajker jiboner ek tukro tukro mrittu ar thakto na;
    Thakto na ajker jiboner tukro tukro sadher berthota o ondhokar;
    Ami jodi hotam bonohangso;
    Bonohongsi hote jodi tumi;
    Kono ek dogonter jolsirhi nodeer dhare
    Dhankheter kachhe |

    If I were

    If I were a wild-drake
    Wild-duck, if you were
    Somewhere on the horizon on the bank of Jolsirhi river
    By a paddy field
    Amidst slander reed
    Resting in a tranquil nest,

    Then on this Phalgun night
    Watching the moon rising at the backdrop of Jhau branches
    We, leaving the scent of low-land water,
    Would have floated ourselves in the silvery crop of the sky -
    Your wing touching mine, my wing feeling your blood beat -
    Blue sky studded with numerous stars like the golden flowers of Khoi field,
    In the green thick nest of Shirees forest
    Like the golden egg
    Phalgun moon

    Perchance the sound of a gun-fire:
    Our sharp movement,
    Pumping ecstasy in our wing,
    We sing the song of northern wind

    Perchance the sound of a gun-fire again:
    We are silent,
    We are at peace
    Life's piecemeal death would not have been there;
    Would not have been frustration and darkness of life's piecemeal desires;
    If I were a wild-drake
    Wild-duck, if you were
    Somewhere on the horizon on the bank of Jolsirhi river
    By a paddy field
  20. esgallindeion

    esgallindeion Minstrel Knight

    - William Blake

    ROSE, thou art sick!
    The invisible worm,
    That flies in the night,
    In the howling storm,

    Has found out thy bed
    Of crimson joy;
    And his dark secret love
    Does thy life destroy.

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