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Sonnet
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Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king,
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In whose cote armour richly are displayed
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All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
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In goodly colours gloriously arrayed.
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Go to my love, Where she is carelesse laid,
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Yet in her winters bowre:
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Tell her the joyous time will not be staid
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Unlesse she do him by the forelock take,
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Bid her therefore her selfe soon ready make,
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To wait on love amongst his lovely crew.
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Where every one that misseth then her make,
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Shall be by him amercest with penance dew.
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Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime,
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For none can call againe the passed time.
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2.å¨å»å¸è±å
William Blake
The Tyger èè
Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright èèï¼èèï¼å
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In the forests of the night, å¨é»å¤çä¸æä¸çççç§ï¼ '
What immortal hand or eye ä»ä¹æ ·çä¸æ½ä¹æåç¼
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? é æä½ é£å¯æçå称å¤è²ï¼
In what distant deeps or skies ä½ ç¼ä¸ççç«çç
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? æ¥èªå¤è¿çæ·±å¤æé«ç©ºï¼
On what wings dare he aspire? ä»åä»ä¹ç¿
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What the hand dare seize the fire? ä»ä¹æ ·çææ¢å»æè¿ç«ç°ï¼
And what shoulder, and what art, ä»ä¹æ ·çèåï¼ä»ä¹æ ·çæèº
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? æè½æ§æä½ é£å¿èçè
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And when thy heart began to beat, ä»ä¹æ ·çæ,ä»ä¹æ ·çè,
What dread hand? And what dread feet? æ使å¾ä½ çå¿èå¼å§å¼¹è·³ï¼
What the hammer? What the chain? ç¨ä»ä¹æ ·çé¤åï¼ä»ä¹æ ·çé¾æ¡ï¼
In what furnace was thy brain? å¨ä»ä¹æ ·ççéç¼æäºä½ ç大èï¼
What the anvil? What dread grasp å¨ä»ä¹æ ·çéç §ä¸ï¼ç¨ä»ä¹æ ·çèå
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? æ¢æä½è¿å¯ä»¥è´å½çå¯æä¸è¥¿ï¼
When the stars threw down their spears, å½æææä¸ä»ä»¬ççæªï¼
And watered heaven with their tears, ç¨ä»ä»¬ç泪水æµç穹èï¼
Did he smile his work to see? ä»è§å°èªå·±çä½åæ¶å¯å¾®ç¬ï¼
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? é¾éæ¯ä»é äºä½ ä¹é äºç¾ç¾ï¼
Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright èèï¼èèï¼å
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In the forests of the night, å¨é»å¤çä¸æä¸çççç§ï¼
What immortal hand or eye, ä»ä¹æ ·çä¸æ½ä¹æåç¼
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? é æä½ é£å¯æçå称å¤è²ï¼
3. å¨å»åå
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I Wondered Lonely as a Cloud
I wondered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils ;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in the never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced ; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company :
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought :
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude ;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
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4.å¶è
A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye
That is all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die
I life the glass to my mouth
I look at you and I sigh
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