- 1 Word usage
- 2 To decipher
- 3 Good
- 4 Faves
- 5 Prose faves
- 6 Song faves
- 7 Bookmarks
- 8 Quotations
- 9 To check
- 10 Started
- 11 Interesting
- Finnegan's Wake ..he carried a hod; brogue; ruction //good
- La Belle Dame sans Merci - ..and fragrant zone
- Robert Seymour Bridges
- There is a hill - myosote, flag (in vegetation), gibbous,
- Madison Cawein
- Garden Gossip - gibbous moon
- George MacDonald
- The Early Bird - gibbous crops
- Wilfred Owens
- Ralph Emerson
- Holidays - "lovely hoyden"
- Author:Thomas Hardy
- The Oxen - barton, coomb; // nice Xmas verse
- John Crowe Ransom
- Henry Lawson
- +For'ard - steerage; wether;
- The "American Sovereign", by O'Neill - "Piffle"
- Banjo Paterson (top 20)
- +Confined Love - by Donne: w:Jointure?
- by Hopkins
- Leaves_of_Grass/Book_XXI#Beat.21_Beat.21_Drums.21 - expostulation; trestles
- The Precipitate Cock and the Unappreciated Pearl - toothsome, henpecked; a gread verse
- The poems of John Godfrey Saxe/The Blind Men and the Elephant - ween
- Let us all be Unhappy on Sunday - effulgence; droll verse
- To Daffodils - daffodils
- Only be still - "cavil"; Wilcox
- Circumstance (Shelley) - another pelf. And "Heaven's cope"
- The secret of prayer - searching for usage examples of "pelf". A powerful verse. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
- To My Cigar - бобрик - from the Banker Bard of Boston
- The Change - taper, scamp, up hill down dale;
- The City of Dreadful Night - "baleful"; powerful
- Author:Clark Ashton Smith
- The Heritage - "to hold in fee"
- Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/While the Bannock Bakes - bannock; good verse
- Going down Hill on a Bicycle, A Boy's Song, By Henry Charles Beeching - treadle; good
- Theodore Roethke
- I knew a woman, lovely in her bones; The Waking;
- Philip Larkin
- Money - "I listen to money singing"
- Francis Thompson (selected at Gutenberg)
- Carrion Comfort second half
- In the Valley of the Elwy - beautiful first half, cryptic second
- Hopkins = inmate; air = outward appearance
- "Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood." - great line
- To R. B. - to Robert Bridges // doubleplus good
- The Soldier (Hopkins)
- A Lecture Upon the Shadow
- Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail - wow but cryptic
- As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme analysis
- The Lantern out of Doors starts great then I loose the thread
- The Shepherd’s brow, fronting forked lightning, owns
- Countee Cullen
- Yet Do I Marvel //catechism as series of questions
- Paul Laurence Dunbar
- A Lazy Day 1913
- Theodore Roethke
- J C Ransom
- Prometheus in Straits // like a rap song
- Winter Remembered //parsnip;
- Philip Larkin
- This Be The Verse
- Francis Thompson
- Grace of the Way
- To a Snow-flake
- Robert Herrick
- Sonnet 2 (Shakespeare) When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
- Edward Thomas
- Thomas Gray
- Theodore Roethke
- Monica Meynell Saleeby, to Fransis Thompson
- Siegfried Sassoon
- W. H. Auden
- Epitaph on a Tyrant
- If— ->
- Banjo Paterson
- Henry Reed
- Naming of parts
- Gerard Manley Hopkins
- Spring and Fall - cryptic; see explanation beautiful rendition (17:00)
- The Shepherd’s brow, fronting forked lightning, owns - great poem
- To R. B.
- Pied Beauty - wow.
- Cheery Beggar
- The Windhover - twice wow.
- God’s Grandeur
- No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief
- The Caged Skylark
- Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend - fretty chervil; thralls of lust
- The Child is father to the man - mini villanelle
- I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day
- It was a hard thing to undo this knot
- Heaven—Haven - wow. (fields - flies / sharp - sided)
- The Furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down
- Dorothy Parker
- Ozymandias (Shelley)
- Robert Frost
- Fire and Ice
- Two Tramps in Mud Time
- "And miles to go before I sleep"
- Kate Tempest
- Cannibal Kids
- Guy Carryl
- John Masefield
- Austin Dobson
- Langston Hughes
- Bad Morning
- April Rain Song
- Introductory to Switzerland, by Oliver Goldsmith - good rhyming, copious vocabulary
- Leisure - by William Henry Davies
- Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam (aka "They are not long") - by Ernest Dowson
- "The Old Astronomer to his Pupil"
- "Up-Hill" by Christina Rossetti
- "Come, Send Round The Wine" by Thomas Moore
- "Lines on Ale" by Poe
- by Countee Cullen:
- "Fruit of the flower"
- "From the Dark Tower"
- "I Have a Rendezvous With Life"
- see Alan Seeger on the same ".. with Death"
- "For a poet"
- "The Heritage" by James Russell Lowell
- By Shakespeare:
- "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson
- "The Turtle" by Ogden Nash
- By Sara Teasdale:
- By Emily Dickinson
- We never know we go when we are going —
- There is no Frigate like a Book
- My life closed twice before its close — - wow
- To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
- September's Baccalaureate
- Much Madness is divinest Sense —
- He ate and drank the precious Words —
- Few, yet enough, ..но мы в тельняшках.
- We send the Wave to find the Wave — - cryptic
- Each that we lose takes part of us;
- Not Sickness stains the Brave,
- Death and Life
- I've seen a Dying Eye
- I reason, Earth is short —
- The Brain, within its Groove
- As by the dead we love to sit, - wow
- I'm Nobody! Who are you?
- I shall know why, when time is over
- SOME, too fragile for winter winds,
- THEY say that “time assuages”,—
- ’T WAS just this time last year I died.
- WILD nights! Wild nights!
- ALTER? When the hills do.
- Success is counted sweetest
- A WORD is dead
- THE PAST is such a curious creature,
- I STEPPED from plank to plank
- Because I could not stop for Death,
- Where Ships of Purple — gently toss — - wow. And "daffodil".
- A soft Sea washed around the House
- The Sun and Fog contested
- A Bird came down the Walk —
- By Longfellow
- By Raymond Carver
- By Elizabeth Bishop
- One Art
- The Water is Wide - Joan Baez
- Moby Dick - ch. 6
- L Spy
- Shak w\ annotations
- shakespeare defined
- Shakespeare Navigators - the best one so far
- Sons and Lovers/Chapter 15 -Sneinton Hermitage
- From Don Juan by Byron:
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?
- From Henry IV part II by Shakespeare
I will lay odds that, ere this year expire,
We bear our civil swords and native fire
As far as France: I heard a bird so sing,
Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.
- From Hudibras
- At the start:
“When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears.”
- About some New Age movements
His knowledge was not far behind
The knight's, but of another kind,
And he another way came by't ;
Some call it Gifts, and some New Light.
A lib'ral art, that costs no pains
Of study, industry, or brains.
- About "ejusdem jeneris"
Or what relation has debating
Of church-affairs with bear-baiting?
A just comparison still is
Of things ejusdem generis:
And then what genus rightly doth
Include, and comprehend them both?
- On stupid anthropocentrism
For as whipp'd tops and bandied balls,
The learned hold, are animals;
So horses they affirm to be
Mere engines made by geometry
- Then a bumper to the Queen led the van of our good wishes, another to the Church Established, a third was left to the whim of the toaster, till at last their slippery engines of verbosity coined nonsense with such a facile fluency that a parcel of alley gossips at a christening, after the sack had gone round twice, could not with their tattling be a greater plague to a fumbling godfather than these men's lame jests and impertinent conundrums were to a man of my temper. //like Gogol
- He leaned his head back and closed his eyes; and like a child, crying, that forgets its grief in watching the sunlight percolate through the tear-dimmed films over the pupils, so Martin forgot his sickness, the presence of Ruth, everything, in watching the masses of vegetation, shot through hotly with sunshine that took form and blazed against this background of his eyelids.
- He stood sprayed by a Niagara of sound—the crash of the elevated trains, clanging cars, pounding of rubberless tires and the antiphony of the cab and truck-drivers indulging in scarifying repartee.
- An illuminated clock above the trees retailed the information that it lacked the half hour of twelve.
- Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins—those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense.
- The store is on a corner about which coveys of ragged-plumed, hilarious children play and become candidates for the cough drops and soothing syrups that wait for them inside.
- Bright-beady of eye, bony of cheek and jaw, scarred, toughened, broken and reknit, indestructible, grisly, gladiatorial as a hornet, he was a type neither new nor unfamiliar.
- He led McGuire into the east room. The floor was bare and clean. White curtains waved in the gulf breeze through the open windows. A big willow rocker, two straight chairs, a long table covered with newspapers, pipes, tobacco, spurs, and cartridges stood in the centre.
- The cattleman's clear grey eyes looked steadily from under his grizzly brows into the huckleberry optics of his guest.
- And like a puff of wholesome, blustery wind the doctor was off.
- Daylight found him in the buckboard, skimming the prairies for the station.
- Con Lantry worked on the sober side of the bar in Kenealy's café. You and I stood, one-legged like geese, on the other side and went into voluntary liquidation with our week's wages. Opposite danced Con, clean, temperate, clear-headed, polite, white-jacketed, punctual, trustworthy, young, responsible, and took our money.
- As for conveying adequate conception of the engaging charm of that prairie evening, despair waits upon it. It is a bold chronicler who will undertake the description of a Texas night in the early spring. An inventory must suffice.
- He was a little, old stoop-shouldered hombre about as big as a gun scabbard, with scraggy white whiskers, and condemned to the continuous use of language.
D. H. Lawrence
- The world doesn't fear a new idea. It can pigeon-hole any idea. But it can't pigeon-hole a real new experience. It can only dodge.
- Men are not free when they are doing just what they like. The moment you can do just what you like, there is nothing you care about doing. Men are only free when they are doing what the deepest self likes.
- And there is getting down to the deepest self! It takes some diving.
- She was puritan, like her father, high-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of this man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the flame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by thought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful, beyond her. (S&L)
- He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his pit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely reached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper—what of it he could—spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the habit of the mine.
- In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy horses feeding at the troughs in the field, scattering their hay on the trodden yellow snow; watch the miners troop home—small, black figures trailing slowly in gangs across the white field. Then the night came up in dark blue vapour from the snow. \ In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes, suddenly arriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like swallows, then were gone, and a drop of water was crawling down the glass. The snowflakes whirled round the corner of the house, like pigeons dashing by. Away across the valley the little black train crawled doubtfully over the great whiteness.
- One evening he and she went up the great sweeping shore of sand towards Theddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ran in a hiss of foam along the coast. It was a warm evening
- Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright grey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glittered as he walked.
And when the pedants bade us mark
What cold mechanic happenings
Must come; our souls said in the dark,
"Belike; but there are likelier things."
- By his solemnity he (Dickens) commands us to love our neighbours. By his caricature he makes us love them.
- Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them. Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that. Actually, the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he remember well his ignorance- which his growth requires- who has so often to use his knowledge?
- Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions.
- My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me to sit down after my twenty–mile walk that morning. He was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy— a smile—not a smile—I remember it, but I can’t explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it got intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts—nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness.
- I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life.
- There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow’s lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match went out.
W S Maugham
- The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer.
- M&S ch. 7: "It is not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive."
- "Why should you think that beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly? Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the chaos of the world in the torment of his soul. And when he has made it, it is not given to all to know it. To recognize it you must repeat the adventure of the artist. It is a melody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your own heart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination."
- MS ch 54: To these people, native and European, he was a queer fish, but they were used to queer fish, and they took him for granted; the world was full of odd persons, who did odd things; and perhaps they knew that a man is not what he wants to be, but what he must be. In England and France he was the square peg in the round hole, but here the holes were any sort of shape, and no sort of peg was quite amiss.
- 'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore; 1165
- He ten times pines that pines beholding food;
- To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;
- Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;
- Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
- Who being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'erflows; 1170
- Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.
You fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of fate: the elements
Of whom your swords are temper'd may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume;
- Love's Labour's Lost
- An old proverb encrusted in a good collet:
I am resolved; 'tis but a three years' fast:
The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits
Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.
- Much Ado:
- BEATRICE. What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
- Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?
- Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!
- No glory lives behind the back of such.
- "Что имеем, не храним"
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours.
E A Poe
- From "Marginalia"
If any ambitious man have a fancy a revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own–the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple–a few plain words–"My Heart Laid Bare." But–this little book must be true to its title.
Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind–so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why they should object to its being published after their death. But to write it–there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen.
- 1: And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us.
- 5: However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way.
- 7: Yes, there is death in this business of whaling—a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity.
- 10: Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is— which was the only way he could get there—thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have “broken his digester.”
- 11: (Gestalt) : The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself.
- 26: But were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete abasement of poor Starbuck’s fortitude, scarce might I have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valor in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but, man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!
- 33:Nor, perhaps, will it fail to be eventually perceived, that behind those forms and usages, as it were, he sometimes masked himself; incidentally making use of them for other and more private ends than they were legitimately intended to subserve. That certain sultanism of his brain, which had otherwise in a good degree remained unmanifested; through those forms that same sultanism became incarnate in an irresistible dictatorship. For be a man’s intellectual superiority what it will, it can never assume the practical, available supremacy over other men, without the aid of some sort of external arts and entrenchments, always, in themselves, more or less paltry and base. This it is, that for ever keeps God’s true princes of the Empire from the world’s hustings; and leaves the highest honors that this air can give, to those men who become famous more through their infinite inferiority to the choice hidden handful of the Divine Inert, than through their undoubted superiority over the dead level of the mass. Such large virtue lurks in these small things when extreme political superstitions invest them, that in some royal instances even to idiot imbecility they have imparted potency. But when, as in the case of Nicholas the Czar, the ringed crown of geographical empire encircles an imperial brain; then, the plebeian herds crouch abased before the tremendous centralization. Nor, will the tragic dramatist who would depict mortal indomitableness in its fullest sweep and direct swing, ever forget a hint, incidentally so important in his art, as the one now alluded to.
- 41:Now, in his heart, Ahab had some glimpse of this, namely; all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad. Yet without power to kill, or change, or shun the fact; he likewise knew that to mankind he did now long dissemble; in some sort, did still. But that thing of his dissembling was only subject to his perceptibility, not to his will determinate. Nevertheless, so well did he succeed in that dissembling, that when with ivory leg he stepped ashore at last, no Nantucketer thought him otherwise than but naturally grieved, and that to the quick, with the terrible casualty which had overtaken him.
Virtuous motives, trammeled by inertia and timidity, are no match for armed and resolute wickedness. A sincere love of peace is not excuse for muddling hundreds of millions of humble folk into total war.
Brewer and Shipley
- It says right there in the constitution,
- It's really A-OK to have a revolution,
- When the leaders that you choose
- Really don't fit their shoes.
Он увидел памятью небольшой город, освещенный солнцем, ослепительные известковые стены и черепичные кровли его домов, фруктовые сады, растущие в теплом блаженстве под синим небом.
- The Tiger Who Came to Tea
- What is Man? by Mark Twain //done
- A Shropshire Lad by Housman
- Letters Written during a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark - Mary Wollstonecraft
- Kipling "The Mother Lodge"
- The Night-born - J London's short stories
- Zen in the Art of Writing - by Bradbury - a tribute poem to G M Hopkins
- Far Away and Long Ago, by William Henry Hudson
- What's Wrong with the World, by Chesterton
- The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman
- The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (ABC Radio)
- Judy Blume (born Judith Sussman; February 12, 1938)
- Jack London
- w:Kate Tempest
- H. L. Mencken
- Author:James Whitcomb Riley
- The Gentleman from San Francisco - find Lawrence's translation
- Author:John Millington Synge
- THE CURSE
- w:Julien Bryan
- Bronte sisters
- w:Mario Savio - Berkeley speech 1964 (via prof w:John McWhorter)
- Mark Twain
- Reagan's A Time For Choosing
- The Beggar's Opera
- The Rape of Lucrece
- Author:Ned Ward
- Author:E. M. Forster
- Author:Christopher Smart
- Author:John Kerry
- Author:Sarah Chauncey Woolsey
- Author:Edith Wharton
- Trout Fishing in America - hilarous, once stumbled in a bookstore but lacked the funds to fetch
- Author:John Milton, melodiously whingeing pom
- The Art of Writing - R L Stephenson
- Author:Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. - seems to be a good bloke
- The American Language
- The Red Badge of Courage
- The Pushcart War, 1964
- Author:Robert Herrick - 17th cent. poet with readable style
- Stephen Sewell (down under)
- A Letter to a Hindu
- Михаил Успенский. Там, где нас нет
- Веллер. Приключения Майора Звягина
- Де Крюи. Охотники за микробами
- Открытые книги Вениамина Каверина
- Жизнь Ивана Семенова, второклассника и второгодника
- Author:William Cowper
- Past and Present by Carlyle
- Princess Ida - copious vocabulary
- Author:G. K. Chesterton
- The Pearl - copious vocabulary.. of sorts
- Sons and Lovers, Studies in Classic American Literature
- Author:Kate Chopin
- Author:Hilaire Belloc - funny verses
- A Moral Alphabet - (0:
- Roald Dahl - do.
- Author:James Thomson (B.V.)
- Author:Arthur Conan Doyle - good flow
- Author:John Greenleaf Whittier - solid verse
- Theodore Winthrop - died too early
- Alexander Pope, Oliver Goldsmith, John Dryden - dexterous distich designers; or, cool couplet crafters
- Author:Marcus Aurelius Antoninus
- Oliver Goldsmith: A Biography
- Author:Guy Wetmore Carryl
- Two Years Before the Mast
- Author:Washington Irving
- Author:Eugene O'Neill
- Essays (Cowley)/The Dangers of an Honest Man in much Company
- Bryant Oden
- Lucubrations of the polite Part of the World, written upon Walls in Bog-houses, &c
- Vasily Belov
- Глазков, Николай Иванович
- Бек, Татьяна Александровна
- Come, Send Round The Wine
- The Heritage by J.R.Lowell
- The Traveller, or, A Prospect of Society - Goldsmith, 1765
- To One in Bedlam - Dowson
- Mary Morison - Burns; \\ Sons and Lovers ch 9
- To Sally - J Q Adams \\do., ch 13
- It was a hard thing to undo this knot - G.M.Hopkins
- To One in Bedlam - Ernest Dowson;