from Light: “I always thought reality”

f
I always thought reality
was something you became
when you grew up.

In the square stands Fata Morgana
looking tired, shouting
Morning paper—morning paper.

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Let the musicians begin,
Let every instrument awaken and instruct us
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We wait, silent, in consent and in the penance
Of patience, awaiting the serene exaltation
Which is the liberation and conclusion of expiation.

Now may the chief musician say:
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Epistle to Augusta by Lord Byron (George Gordon)
Lord Byron (George Gordon)
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
Go where I will, to me thou art the same
A lov'd regret which I would not resign.
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The Bear Hunt by Abraham Lincoln
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A wild-bear chace, didst never see?
Then hast thou lived in vain.
Thy richest bump of glorious glee,
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Sence You Went Away by James Weldon Johnson
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Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright,
Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light,
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Thyrsis: A Monody, to Commemorate the Author's Friend, Arthur Hugh Clough by Matthew Arnold
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How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
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from The Testament of John Lydgate by John Lydgate
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Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see
What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace.
With pietous voys I crye and sey to the:
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Beholde the rebukes that do me so manace,
Beholde my enemyes that do me so despice,
And how that I, to reforme the to grace,
Was like a lambe offred in sacryfice.

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Geyn thyn envie behold my charité;
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Kneel down, fair Love, and fill thyself with tears,
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Be filled with rumour of people sorrowing;
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If Heaven has into being deigned to call
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Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
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Ode I, 5: To Pyrrha by Horace
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What slender youth, bedew’d with liquid odors,
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In wreaths thy golden hair,
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Unwonted shall admire!
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I'm Ramón González Barbagelata from anywhere,
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I'm the third-class passenger installed, good God!
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My dog has died.
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Betrothed by Louise Bogan
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You have put your two hands upon me, and your mouth,
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from A Ballad Upon A Wedding by Sir John Suckling
Sir John Suckling
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake, or fair.

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way,
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