Mayra: .

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  • : 4, 11/10/2002.
  • © Copyright Mayra (mayra_ru@mail.ru)
  • : 13/05/2002. 6k. .
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  • Real Riches
    'T is little I could care for pearls
    Who own the ample sea;
    Or brooches, when the Emperor
    With rubies pelteth me;
    Or gold, who am the Prince of Mines;
    Or diamonds, when I see
    A diadem to fit a dome
    Continual crowning me.
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    ***
    Father, I bring thee not myself,--
    That were the little load;
    I bring thee the imperial heart
    I had not strength to hold.
    The heart I cherished in my own
    Till mine too heavy grew,
    Yet strangest, heavier since it went,
    Is it too large for you?
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    ***
    We outgrow love, like other things
    And put it in the drawer,
    Till it an antique fashion shows
    Like costumes grandsires wore.
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    Superiority to Fate
    Superiority to fate
    Is difficult to learn.
    'T is not conferred by any,
    But possible to earn
    A pittance at a time,
    Until, to her surprise,
    The soul with strict economy
    Subsists till Paradise.
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    Parting
    My life closed twice before its close;
    It yet remains to see
    If Immortality unveil
    A third event to me,
    So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
    As these that twice befell.
    Parting is all we know of heaven,
    And all we need of hell.
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    Aspiration
    We never know how high we are
    Till we are called to rise;
    And then, if we are true to plan,
    Our statures touch the skies.
    The heroism we recite
    Would be a daily thing,
    Did not ourselves the cubits warp
    For fear to be a king.
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    A Portrait
    A face devoid of love or grace,
    A hateful, hard, successful face,
    A face with which a stone
    Would feel as thoroughly at ease
    As were they old acquaintances,--
    First time together thrown.
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    ***
    I have a king who does not speak;
    So, wondering, thro' the hours meek
    I trudge the day away,--
    Half glad when it is night and sleep,
    If, haply, thro' a dream to peep
    In parlors shut by day.
    And if I do, when morning comes,
    It is as if a hundred drums
    Did round my pillow roll,
    And shouts fill all my childish sky,
    And bells keep saying 'victory'
    From steeples in my soul!
    And if I don't, the little Bird
    Within the Orchard is not heard,
    And I omit to pray,
    'Father, thy will be done' to-day,
    For my will goes the other way,
    And it were perjury!
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    To make a prarie it takes a clover and one bee
    One clover, and a bee
    And revery
    The revery alone will do
    If bees are few
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  • : 4, 11/10/2002.
  • © Copyright Mayra (mayra_ru@mail.ru)
  • : 13/05/2002. 6k. .
  • :
  •   :

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