ROSE'S SONG from THE VILLAGE COQUETTES by Charles Dickens

ROSE'S SONG from THE VILLAGE COQUETTES 

by Charles Dickens

SUCCESS by Emma Lazarus

SUCCESS 

by Emma Lazarus

A REBUS BY VANESSA by Jonathan Swift

A REBUS BY VANESSA 

by Jonathan Swift

LONELINESS by Emma Lazarus

 LONELINESS 

by Emma Lazarus

THIS IS MY LETTER TO THE WORLD by Emily Dickinson

 THIS IS MY LETTER TO THE WORLD 

by Emily Dickinson

EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND by Lord Byron

 EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND 

by Lord Byron

Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear!

What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,

Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;

Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;

Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,

Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;

Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight,

Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.

If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,

A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.

No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,

But living statues there are seen to weep;

Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,

Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.

What though thy sire lament his failing line,

A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!

Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:

But, who with me shall hold thy former place?

Thine image, what new friendship can efface?

Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow,

Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;

To all, save one, is consolation known,

While solitary Friendship sighs alone.

LUCY'S SONG by Charles Dickens

LUCY'S SONG 

by Charles Dickens

Love is not a feeling to pass away,

Like the balmy breath of a summer day;

It is not--it cannot be--laid aside;

It is not a thing to forget or hide.

It clings to the heart, ah, woe is me!

As the ivy clings to the old oak tree.

Love is not a passion of earthly mould,

As a thirst for honour, or fame, or gold:

For when all these wishes have died away,

The deep strong love of a brighter day,

Though nourished in secret, consumes the more,

As the slow rust eats to the iron's core.

THE MOON by Emily Dickinson

THE MOON 

by Emily Dickinson