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DREAM-PEDLARY

If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life's fresh crown

Only a rose-leaf down.

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?

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THE evening sun was sinking down

On low green hills and clustered trees;

It was a scene as fair and lone

As ever felt the soothing breeze

That cools the grass when day is gone,
And gives the waves a brighter blue,

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And makes the soft white clouds sail on

Like spirits of ethereal dew.

Which all the morn had hovered o'er
The azure flowers, where they were nursed,
And now return to Heaven once more,
Where their bright glories shone at first.

EMILY BRONTË

TO THE EVENING STAR
THOU Fair-haired Angel of the Evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radient crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares through the dun forest:
The fleeces of the flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
WILLIAM BLAKE

TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO

SOON

SHUT not so soon; the dull-eyed night

Hath not as yet begun

To make a seisure on the light,

Or to seale up the Sun.

No Marigolds yet closed are;

No shadowes great appeare:

Nor doth the early Shepheard's Starre
Shine like a spangle here.

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Stay but till my Julia close

Her life-begetting eye;

And let the whole world then dispose

It selfe to live or dye.

ROBERT HERRICK

OF THE GOING DOWN OF THE

SUN

WHAT, hast thou run thy Race? Art going down?
Thou seemest angry, why dost on us frown?

Yea wrap thy heads with Clouds, and hide thy face,
As threatning to withdraw from us thy Grace?
Oh leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head,
Our Hórizon with darkness will be spread.

Tell's, who hath thee offended? Turn again:

Alas! too late-Entreaties are in vain!

JOHN BUNYAN

VIRTUE

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright
The bridal of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and vertuous soul,

Like seasond timber, never gives;

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