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The Tyger

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?   In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What

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War Photographer

In his darkroom he is finally alone with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows. The only light is red and softly glows, as though this were a church and he a priest preparing to intone a Mass*. Belfast.

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If —

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and

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My Last Duchess

Ferrara   That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will’t please you sit and look

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Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments; love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and

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