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Phoebe Cary
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“O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.”
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“Tell me not, in idle jingle, / Marriage is an empty dream, / For the girl is dead that's single, / And things are not what they seem.”
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“All the great blessings of my life / Are present in my thoughts to-day.”
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“Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?”
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“So, brothers and sisters, as we go, / Still let us move as one, / Always together keeping step, / Till the march of life is done.”
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“I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.”
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“One sweetly solemn thought / Comes to me o'er and o'er; / I am nearer home to-day / Than I ever have been before ...”
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“Comfort me with apples! / For lo! I am sick; I am sad and opprest; / I come back to the place where, a child, I was blest. / Hope is false, love is vain, for the old things I sigh; / And if these cannot comfort me, then I must die! / Comfort me with apples!”
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“And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!”
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“Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?”
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“But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!”
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“Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face ...”
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“For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.”
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“Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest ...”
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“And though hard be the task, / 'Keep a stiff upper lip!'”
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“Only yield when you must; / Never 'give up the ship,' / But fight on to the last / 'With a stiff upper lip!'”
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“O men, grown sick with toil and care, / Leave for awhile the crowded mart; / O women, sinking with despair, / Weary of limb and faint of heart, / Forget your years to-day and come / As children back to childhood's home.”
Phoebe Cary, U.S. poet
(1824 - 1871)