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The random poem generator takes the first lines of nearly 3,900 poems to make a new poem. To see the full list of what's included, click here.

Whose senses in so euill consort, their step-dame Nature laies,
STRIPPED to the waist, his copper-coloured skin
By night we linger'd on the lawn,
No poor Britisher is nearly
Let others sing of knights and paladines
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried
WHat man so wise, what earthly wit so ware,
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

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I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
— Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights