poet.id,poet.ts,poet.title,poet.poet_x_poem_id
1,"2018-02-28 20:18:29","Robert Frost","{
    ""1"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 1,
        ""poem.id"": 1,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:42:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Will Sing You One-O"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It was long I layAwake that nightWishing that nightWould name the hourAnd tell me whetherTo call it day(Though not yet light)And give up sleep.The snow fell deepWith the hiss of spray;Two winds would meet,One down one street,One down another,And fight in a smotherOf dust and feather.I could not say,But feared the coldHad checked the paceOf the tower clockBy tying togetherIts hands of goldBefore its face.Then cane one knock!A note unruffledOf earthly weather,Though strange and muffled.The tower said, 'One!'And then a steeple.They spoke to themselvesAnd such few peopleAs winds might rouseFrom sleeping warm(But not unhouse).They left the stormThat struck en masseMy window glassLike a beaded fur.In that grave OneThey spoke of the sunAnd moon and stars,Saturn and MarsAnd Jupiter.Still more unfettered,They left the namedAnd spoke of the lettered,The sigmas and tausOf constellations.They filled their throatsWith the furthest bodiesTo which man sends hisSpeculation,Beyond which God is;The cosmic motesOf yawning lenses.Their solemn pealsWere not their own:They spoke for the clockWith whose vast wheelsTheirs interlock.In that grave wordUttered aloneThe utmost starTrembled and stirred,Though set so farIts whirling frenziesAppear like standingin one self station.It has not ranged,And save for the wonder Of once expandingTo be a nova,It has not changedTo the eye of manOn planets overAround and underIt in creationSince man beganTo drag down manAnd nation nation."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""2"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 2,
        ""poem.id"": 2,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:42:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Witch of Coos"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/24/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I staid the night for shelter at a farm Behind the mountains, with a mother and son, Two old-believers. They did all the talking. MOTHER Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits She could call up to pass a winter evening, But won't, should be burned at the stake or something. Summoning spirits isn't 'Button, button, Who's got the button,' I would have them know. SON: Mother can make a common table rear And kick with two legs like an army mule. MOTHER: And when I've done it, what good have I done? Rather than tip a table for you, let me Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me. He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him How could that be - I thought the dead were souls, He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious That there's something the dead are keeping back? Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back. SON: You wouldn't want to tell him what we have Up attic, mother? MOTHER: Bones - a skeleton. SON: But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed Against the' attic door: the door is nailed. It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night Halting perplexed behind the barrier Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get Is back into the cellar where it came from. MOTHER: We'll never let them, will we, son! We'll never ! SON: It left the cellar forty years ago And carried itself like a pile of dishes Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen, Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, Another from the bedroom to the attic, Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it. Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs. I was a baby: I don't know where I was. MOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me - I went to sleep before I went to bed, Especially in winter when the bed Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow. The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, But left an open door to cool the room off So as to sort of turn me out of it. I was just coming to myself enough To wonder where the cold was coming from, When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar. The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on When there was water in the cellar in spring Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, The way a man with one leg and a crutch, Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile: It wasn't anyone who could be there. The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked And swollen tight and buried under snow. The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust And swollen tight and buried under snow. It was the bones. I knew them - and good reason. My first impulse was to get to the knob And hold the door. But the bones didn't try The door; they halted helpless on the landing, Waiting for things to happen in their favour.' The faintest restless rustling ran all through them. I never could have done the thing I did If the wish hadn't been too strong in me To see how they were mounted for this walk. I had a vision of them put together Not like a man, but like a chandelier. So suddenly I flung the door wide on him. A moment he stood balancing with emotion, And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth. Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.) Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, The way he did in life once; but this time I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, And fell back from him on the floor myself. The finger-pieces slid in all directions. (Where did I see one of those pieces lately? Hand me my button-box- it must be there.) I sat up on the floor and shouted, 'Toffile, It's coming up to you.' It had its choice Of the door to the cellar or the hall. It took the hall door for the novelty, And set off briskly for so slow a thing, Stillgoing every which way in the joints, though, So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, >From the slap I had just now given its hand. I listened till it almost climbed the stairs >From the hall to the only finished bedroom, Before I got up to do anything; Then ran and shouted, 'Shut the bedroom door, Toffile, for my sake!' 'Company?' he said, 'Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed.' So lying forward weakly on the handrail I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own I could see nothing. 'Toffile, I don't see it. It's with us in the room though. It's the bones.' 'What bones?' 'The cellar bones- out of the grave.' That made him throw his bare legs out of bed And sit up by me and take hold of me. I wanted to put out the light and see If I could see it, or else mow the room, With our arms at the level of our knees, And bring the chalk-pile down. 'I'll tell you what- It's looking for another door to try. The uncommonly deep snow has made him think Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy, He always used to sing along the tote-road. He's after an open door to get out-doors. Let's trap him with an open door up attic.' Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough, Almost the moment he was given an opening, The steps began to climb the attic stairs. I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them. 'Quick !' I slammed to the door and held the knob. 'Toffile, get nails.' I made him nail the door shut, And push the headboard of the bed against it. Then we asked was there anything Up attic that we'd ever want again. The attic was less to us than the cellar. If the bones liked the attic, let them have it. Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed Behind the door and headboard of the bed, Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, That's what I sit up in the dark to say- To no one any more since Toffile died. 2o3 Let them stay in the attic since they went there. I promised Toffile to be cruel to them For helping them be cruel once to him. SON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar. MOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar. SON: We never could find out whose bones they were. MOTHER: Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once. They were a man's his father killed for me. I mean a man he killed instead of me. The least I could do was to help dig their grave. We were about it one night in the cellar. Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him To tell the truth, suppose the time had come. Son looks surprised to see me end a lie We'd kept all these years between ourselves So as to have it ready for outsiders. But to-night I don't care enough to lie- I don't remember why I ever cared. Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe Could tell you why he ever cared himself- She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted Among the buttons poured out in her lap. I verified the name next morning: Toffile. The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""3"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 3,
        ""poem.id"": 3,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:42:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brown's Descent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/14/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Brown lived at such a lofty farmThat everyone for miles could seeHis lantern when he did his choresIn winter after half-past three.And many must have seen him makeHis wild descent from there one night,'Cross lots, 'cross walls, 'cross everything,Describing rings of lantern light.Between the house and barn the galeGot him by something he had onAnd blew him out on the icy crustThat cased the world, and he was gone!Walls were all buried, trees were few:He saw no stay unless he stoveA hole in somewhere with his heel.But though repeatedly he stroveAnd stamped and said things to himself,And sometimes something seemed to yield,He gained no foothold, but pursuedHis journey down from field to field.Sometimes he came with arms outspreadLike wings, revolving in the sceneUpon his longer axis, andWith no small dignity of mien.Faster or slower as he chanced,Sitting or standing as he chose,According as he feared to riskHis neck, or thought to spare his clothes,He never let the lantern drop.And some exclaimed who saw afarThe figures he described with it,\"I wonder what those signals areBrown makes at such an hour of night!He's celebrating something strange.I wonder if he's sold his farm,Or been made Master of the Grange.\"He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;He fell and made the lantern rattle(But saved the light from going out.)So half-way down he fought the battleIncredulous of his own bad luck.And then becoming reconciledTo everything, he gave it upAnd came down like a coasting child.\"Well—I—be—\" that was all he said,As standing in the river road,He looked back up the slippery slope(Two miles it was) to his abode.Sometimes as an authorityOn motor-cars, I'm asked if IShould say our stock was petered out,And this is my sincere reply:Yankees are what they always were.Don't think Brown ever gave up hopeOf getting home again becauseHe couldn't climb that slippery slope;Or even thought of standing thereUntil the January thawShould take the polish off the crust.He bowed with grace to natural law,And then went round it on his feet,After the manner of our stock;Not much concerned for those to whom,At that particular time o'clock,It must have looked as if the courseHe steered was really straight awayFrom that which he was headed for—Not much concerned for them, I say:No more so than became a man—And politician at odd seasons.I've kept Brown standing in the coldWhile I invested him with reasons;But now he snapped his eyes three times;Then shook his lantern, saying, \"Ile's'Bout out!\" and took the long way homeBy road, a matter of several miles."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""4"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 4,
        ""poem.id"": 4,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:42:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Housekeeper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I let myself in at the kitchen door.'It's you,' she said. 'I can't get up. Forgive me Not answering your knock. I can no more Let people in than I can keep them out. I'm getting too old for my size, I tell them. My fingers are about all I've the use of So's to take any comfort. I can sew: I help out with this beadwork what I can.' 'That's a smart pair of pumps you're beading there. Who are they for?' 'You mean?- oh, for some miss. I can't keep track of other people's daughters. Lord, if I were to dream of everyone Whose shoes I primped to dance in!' 'And where's John?' 'Haven't you seen him? Strange what set you off To come to his house when he's gone to yours. You can't have passed each other. I know what: He must have changed his mind and gone to Garlands. He won't be long in that case. You can wait. Though what good you can be, or anyone- It's gone so far. You've heard? Estelle's run off.' 'Yes, what's it all about? When did she go?' 'Two weeks since.' 'She's in earnest, it appears.' 'I'm sure she won't come back. She's hiding somewhere. I don't know where myself. John thinks I do. He thinks I only have to say the word, And she'll come back. But, bless you, I'm her mother- I can't talk to her, and, Lord, if I could!' 'It will go hard with John. What will he do? He can't find anyone to take her place.' 'Oh, if you ask me that, what will he do? He gets some sort of bakeshop meals together, With me to sit and tell him everything, What's wanted and how much and where it is. But when I'm gone- of course I can't stay here: Estelle's to take me when she's settled down. He and I only hinder one another. I tell them they can't get me through the door, though: I've been built in here like a big church organ. We've been here fifteen years.' 'That's a long time To live together and then pull apart. How do you see him living when you're gone? Two of you out will leave an empty house.' 'I don't just see him living many years, Left here with nothing but the furniture. I hate to think of the old place when we're gone, With the brook going by below the yard, And no one here but hens blowing about. If he could sell the place, but then, he can't: No one will ever live on it again. It's too run down. This is the last of it. What I think he will do, is let things smash. He'll sort of swear the time away. He's awful! I never saw a man let family troubles Make so much difference in his man's affairs. He's just dropped everything. He's like a child. I blame his being brought up by his mother. He's got hay down that's been rained on three times. He hoed a little yesterday for me: I thought the growing things would do him good. Something went wrong. I saw him throw the hoe Sky-high with both hands. I can see it now- Come here- I'll show you- in that apple tree. That's no way for a man to do at his age: He's fifty-five, you know, if he's a day.' 'Aren't you afraid of him? What's that gun for?' 'Oh, that's been there for hawks since chicken-time. John Hall touch me! Not if he knows his friends. I'll say that for him, John's no threatener Like some men folk. No one's afraid of him; All is, he's made up his mind not to stand What he has got to stand.' 'Where is Estelle? Couldn't one talk to her? What does she say? You say you don't know where she is.' 'Nor want to! She thinks if it was bad to live with him, It must be right to leave him.' 'Which is wrong!' 'Yes, but he should have married her.' 'I know.' 'The strain's been too much for her all these years: I can't explain it any other way. It's different with a man, at least with John: He knows he's kinder than the run of men. Better than married ought to be as good As married- that's what he has always said. I know the way he's felt- but all the same!' 'I wonder why he doesn't marry her And end it.' 'Too late now: she wouldn't have him. He's given her time to think of something else. That's his mistake. The dear knows my interest Has been to keep the thing from breaking up. This is a good home: I don't ask for better. But when I've said, 'Why shouldn't they be married,' He'd say, 'Why should they?' no more words than that.' 'And after all why should they? John's been fair I take it. What was his was always hers. There was no quarrel about property.' 'Reason enough, there was no property. A friend or two as good as own the farm, Such as it is. It isn't worth the mortgage.' 'I mean Estelle has always held the purse.' 'The rights of that are harder to get at. I guess Estelle and I have filled the purse. 'Twas we let him have money, not he us. John's a bad farmer. I'm not blaming him. Take it year in, year out, he doesn't make much. We came here for a home for me, you know, Estelle to do the housework for the board Of both of us. But look how it turns out: She seems to have the housework, and besides, Half of the outdoor work, though as for that, He'd say she does it more because she likes it. You see our pretty things are all outdoors. Our hens and cows and pigs are always better Than folks like us have any business with. Farmers around twice as well off as we Haven't as good. They don't go with the farm. One thing you can't help liking about John, He's fond of nice things- too fond, some would say. But Estelle don't complain: she's like him there. She wants our hens to be the best there are. You never saw this room before a show, Full of lank, shivery, half-drowned birds In separate coops, having their plumage done. The smell of the wet feathers in the heat! You spoke of John's not being safe to stay with. You don't know what a gentle lot we are: We wouldn't hurt a hen! You ought to see us Moving a flock of hens from place to place. We're not allowed to take them upside down, All we can hold together by the legs. Two at a time's the rule, one on each arm, No matter how far and how many times We have to go.' 'You mean that's John's idea.' 'And we live up to it; or I don't know What childishness he wouldn't give way to. He manages to keep the upper hand On his own farm. He's boss. But as to hens: We fence our flowers in and the hens range. Nothing's too good for them. We say it pays. John likes to tell the offers he has had, Twenty for this cock, twenty-five for that. He never takes the money. If they're worth That much to sell, they're worth as much to keep. Bless you, it's all expense, though. Reach me down The little tin box on the cupboard shelf, The upper shelf, the tin box. That's the one. I'll show you. Here you are.' 'What's this?' 'A bill- For fifty dollars for one Langshang cock- Receipted. And the cock is in the yard.' 'Not in a glass case, then?' 'He'd need a tall one: He can eat off a barrel from the ground. He's been in a glass case, as you may say, The Crystal Palace, London. He's imported. John bought him, and we paid the bill with beads- Wampum, I call it. Mind, we don't complain. But you see, don't you, we take care of him.' 'And like it, too. It makes it all the worse.' 'It seems as if. And that's not all: he's helpless In ways that I can hardly tell you of. Sometimes he gets possessed to keep accounts To see where all the money goes so fast. You know how men will be ridiculous. But it's just fun the way he gets bedeviled- If he's untidy now, what will he be- - ? 'It makes it all the worse. You must be blind.' 'Estelle's the one. You needn't talk to me.' 'Can't you and I get to the root of it? What's the real trouble? What will satisfy her?' 'It's as I say: she's turned from him, that's all.' 'But why, when she's well off? Is it the neighbours, Being cut off from friends?' 'We have our friends. That isn't it. Folks aren't afraid of us.' 'She's let it worry her. You stood the strain, And you're her mother.' 'But I didn't always. I didn't relish it along at first. But I got wonted to it. And besides- John said I was too old to have grandchildren. But what's the use of talking when it's done? She won't come back- it's worse than that- she can't.' 'Why do you speak like that? What do you know? What do you mean?- she's done harm to herself?' 'I mean she's married- married someone else.' 'Oho, oho!' 'You don't believe me.' 'Yes, I do, Only too well. I knew there must be something! So that was what was back. She's bad, that's all!' 'Bad to get married when she had the chance?' 'Nonsense! See what's she done! But who, who- - ' 'Who'd marry her straight out of such a mess? Say it right out- no matter for her mother. The man was found. I'd better name no names. John himself won't imagine who he is.' 'Then it's all up. I think I'll get away. You'll be expecting John. I pity Estelle; I suppose she deserves some pity, too. You ought to have the kitchen to yourself To break it to him. You may have the job.' 'You needn't think you're going to get away. John's almost here. I've had my eye on someone Coming down Ryan's Hill. I thought 'twas him. Here he is now. This box! Put it away. And this bill.' 'What's the hurry? He'll unhitch.' 'No, he won't, either. He'll just drop the reins And turn Doll out to pasture, rig and all. She won't get far before the wheels hang up On something- there's no harm. See, there he is! My, but he looks as if he must have heard!' John threw the door wide but he didn't enter.'How are you, neighbour? Just the man I'm after. Isn't it Hell,' he said. 'I want to know. Come out here if you want to hear me talk. I'll talk to you, old woman, afterward. I've got some news that maybe isn't news. What are they trying to do to me, these two?' 'Do go along with him and stop his shouting.' She raised her voice against the closing door:'Who wants to hear your news, you- dreadful fool?'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""5"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 5,
        ""poem.id"": 5,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Generations of Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/16/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A governor it was proclaimed this time, When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire Ancestral memories might come together. And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow, A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off, And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone. Someone had literally run to earth In an old cellar hole in a by-road The origin of all the family there. Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe That now not all the houses left in town Made shift to shelter them without the help Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard. They were at Bow, but that was not enough: Nothing would do but they must fix a day To stand together on the crater's verge That turned them on the world, and try to fathom The past and get some strangeness out of it. But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain, With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted. The young folk held some hope out to each other Till well toward noon when the storm settled down With a swish in the grass. 'What if the others Are there,' they said. 'It isn't going to rain.' Only one from a farm not far away Strolled thither, not expecting he would find Anyone else, but out of idleness. One, and one other, yes, for there were two. The second round the curving hillside road Was a girl; and she halted some way off To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind At least to pass by and see who he was, And perhaps hear some word about the weather. This was some Stark she didn't know. He nodded. 'No fête to-day,' he said. 'It looks that way.' She swept the heavens, turning on her heel. 'I only idled down.' 'I idled down.' Provision there had been for just such meeting Of stranger cousins, in a family tree Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch Of the one bearing it done in detail- Some zealous one's laborious device. She made a sudden movement toward her bodice, As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together. 'Stark?' he inquired. 'No matter for the proof.' 'Yes, Stark. And you?' 'I'm Stark.' He drew his passport. 'You know we might not be and still be cousins: The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys, All claiming some priority in Starkness. My mother was a Lane, yet might have married Anyone upon earth and still her children Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day.' 'You riddle with your genealogy Like a Viola. I don't follow you.' 'I only mean my mother was a Stark Several times over, and by marrying father No more than brought us back into the name.' 'One ought not to be thrown into confusion By a plain statement of relationship, But I own what you say makes my head spin. You take my card- you seem so good at such things- And see if you can reckon our cousinship. Why not take seats here on the cellar wall And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?' 'Under the shelter of the family tree.' 'Just so- that ought to be enough protection.' 'Not from the rain. I think it's going to rain.' 'It's raining.' 'No, it's misting; let's be fair. Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?' The situation was like this: the road Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up, And disappeared and ended not far off. No one went home that way. The only house Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod. And below roared a brook hidden in trees, The sound of which was silence for the place. This he sat listening to till she gave judgment. 'On father's side, it seems, we're- let me see- - ' 'Don't be too technical.- You have three cards.' 'Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch Of the Stark family I'm a member of.' 'D'you know a person so related to herself Is supposed to be mad.' 'I may be mad.' 'You look so, sitting out here in the rain Studying genealogy with me You never saw before. What will we come to With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees? I think we're all mad. Tell me why we're here Drawn into town about this cellar hole Like wild geese on a lake before a storm? What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.' 'The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc, Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of. This is the pit from which we Starks were digged.' 'You must be learned. That's what you see in it?' 'And what do you see?' 'Yes, what do I see? First let me look. I see raspberry vines- - ' 'Oh, if you're going to use your eyes, just hear What I see. It's a little, little boy, As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun; He's groping in the cellar after jam, He thinks it's dark and it's flooded with daylight.' 'He's nothing. Listen. When I lean like this I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,- With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug- Bless you, it isn't Grandsir Stark, it's Granny, But the pipe's there and smoking and the jug. She's after cider, the old girl, she's thirsty; Here's hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely.' 'Tell me about her. Does she look like me?' 'She should, shouldn't she, you're so many times Over descended from her. I believe She does look like you. Stay the way you are. The nose is just the same, and so's the chin- Making allowance, making due allowance.' 'You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!' 'See that you get her greatness right. Don't stint her.' 'Yes, it's important, though you think it isn't. I won't be teased. But see how wet I am.' 'Yes, you must go; we can't stay here for ever. But wait until I give you a hand up. A bead of silver water more or less Strung on your hair won't hurt your summer looks. I wanted to try something with the noise That the brook raises in the empty valley. We have seen visions- now consult the voices. Something I must have learned riding in trains When I was young. I used the roar To set the voices speaking out of it, Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing. Perhaps you have the art of what I mean. I've never listened in among the sounds That a brook makes in such a wild descent. It ought to give a purer oracle.' 'It's as you throw a picture on a screen: The meaning of it all is out of you; The voices give you what you wish to hear.' 'Strangely, it's anything they wish to give.' 'Then I don't know. It must be strange enough. I wonder if it's not your make-believe. What do you think you're like to hear to-day?' 'From the sense of our having been together- But why take time for what I'm like to hear? I'll tell you what the voices really say. You will do very well right where you are A little longer. I mustn't feel too hurried, Or I can't give myself to hear the voices.' 'Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?' 'You must be very still; you mustn't talk.' 'I'll hardly breathe.' 'The voices seem to say- - ' 'I'm waiting.' 'Don't! The voices seem to say: Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid Of an acquaintance made adventurously.' 'I let you say that- on consideration.' 'I don't see very well how you can help it. You want the truth. I speak but by the voices. You see they know I haven't had your name, Though what a name should matter between us- - ' 'I shall suspect- - ' 'Be good. The voices say: Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber That you shall find lies in the cellar charred Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it For a door-sill or other corner piece In a new cottage on the ancient spot. The life is not yet all gone out of it. And come and make your summer dwelling here, And perhaps she will come, still unafraid, And sit before you in the open door With flowers in her lap until they fade, But not come in across the sacred sill- - ' 'I wonder where your oracle is tending. You can see that there's something wrong with it, Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir's Nor Granny's, surely. Call up one of them. They have best right to be heard in this place.' 'You seem so partial to our great-grandmother (Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.) You will be likely to regard as sacred Anything she may say. But let me warn you, Folks in her day were given to plain speaking. You think you'd best tempt her at such a time?' 'It rests with us always to cut her off.' 'Well then, it's Granny speaking: 'I dunnow! Mebbe I'm wrong to take it as I do. There ain't no names quite like the old ones though, Nor never will be to my way of thinking. One mustn't bear too hard on the new comers, But there's a dite too many of them for comfort. I should feel easier if I could see More of the salt wherewith they're to be salted. Son, you do as you're told! You take the timber- It's as sound as the day when it was cut- And begin over- - ' There, she'd better stop. You can see what is troubling Granny, though. But don't you think we sometimes make too much Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals, And those will bear some keeping still about.' 'I can see we are going to be good friends.' 'I like your 'going to be.' You said just now It's going to rain.' 'I know, and it was raining. I let you say all that. But I must go now.' 'You let me say it? on consideration? How shall we say good-bye in such a case?' 'How shall we?' 'Will you leave the way to me?' 'No, I don't trust your eyes. You've said enough. Now give me your hand up.- Pick me that flower.' 'Where shall we meet again?' 'Nowhere but here Once more before we meet elsewhere.' 'In rain?' 'It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain. In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains? But if we must, in sunshine.' So she went."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""6"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 6,
        ""poem.id"": 6,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wild Grapes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""What tree may not the fig be gathered from? The grape may not be gathered from the birch?It's all you know the grape, or know the birch.As a girl gathered from the birch myselfEqually with my weight in grapes, one autumn,I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.I was born, I suppose, like anyone,And grew to be a little boyish girlMy brother could not always leave at home.But that beginning was wiped out in fearThe day I swung suspended with the grapes,And was come after like EurydiceAnd brought down safely from the upper regions;And the life I live now's an extra lifeI can waste as I please on whom I please.So if you see me celebrate two birthdays,And give myself out of two different ages,One of them five years younger than I look-One day my brother led me to a gladeWhere a white birch he knew of stood alone,Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves,And heavy on her heavy hair behind,Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.One bunch of them, and there began to beBunches all round me growing in white birches,The way they grew round Leif the Lucky's German;Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though,As the moon used to seem when I was younger,And only freely to be had for climbing.My brother did the climbing; and at firstThrew me down grapes to miss and scatterAnd have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack;Which gave him some time to himself to eat,But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.So then, to make me wholly self-supporting,He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earthAnd put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.'Here, take a tree-top, I'll get down another.Hold on with all your might when I let go.'I said I had the tree. It wasn't true.The opposite was true. The tree had me.The minute it was left with me aloneIt caught me up as if I were the fishAnd it the fishpole. So I was translatedTo loud cries from my brother of 'Let go!Don't you know anything, you girl? Let go!'But I, with something of the baby gripAcquired ancestrally in just such treesWhen wilder mothers than our wildest nowHung babies out on branches by the handsTo dry or wash or tan, I don't know which,(You'll have to ask an evolutionist)-I held on uncomplainingly for life.My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.'What are you doing up there in those grapes?Don't be afraid. A few of them won't hurt you.I mean, they won't pick you if you don't them.'Much danger of my picking anything!By that time I was pretty well reducedTo a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.'Now you know how it feels,' my brother said,'To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them,That when it thinks it has escaped the foxBy growing where it shouldn't-on a birch,Where a fox wouldn't think to look for it-And if he looked and found it, couldn't reach it-Just then come you and I to gather it.Only you have the advantage of the grapesIn one way: you have one more stem to cling by,And promise more resistance to the picker.'One by one I lost off my hat and shoes,And still I clung. I let my head fall back,And shut my eyes against the sun, my earsAgainst my brother's nonsense; 'Drop,' he said,'I'll catch you in my arms. It isn't far.'(Stated in lengths of him it might not be.)'Drop or I'll shake the tree and shake you down.'Grim silence on my part as I sank lower,My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.'Why, if she isn't serious about it!Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.I'll bend the tree down and let you down by it.'I don't know much about the letting down;But once I felt ground with my stocking feetAnd the world came revolving back to me,I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers,Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.My brother said: 'Don't you weigh anything?Try to weigh something next time, so you won'tBe run off with by birch trees into space.'It wasn't my not weighing anythingSo much as my not knowing anything-My brother had been nearer right before.I had not taken the first step in knowledge;I had not learned to let go with the hands,As still I have not learned to with the heart,And have no wish to with the heart-nor need,That I can see. The mind-is not the heart.I may yet live, as I know others live,To wish in vain to let go with the mind-Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells meThat I need learn to let go with the heart."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""7"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 7,
        ""poem.id"": 7,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Egg and the Machine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""He gave the solid rail a hateful kick.From far away there came an answering tickAnd then another tick. He knew the code:His hate had roused an engine up the road.He wished when he had had the track aloneHe had attacked it with a club or stoneAnd bent some rail wide open like switchSo as to wreck the engine in the ditch.Too late though, now, he had himself to thank.Its click was rising to a nearer clank.Here it came breasting like a horse in skirts.(He stood well back for fear of scalding squirts.)Then for a moment all there was was sizeConfusion and a roar that drowned the criesHe raised against the gods in the machine.Then once again the sandbank lay serene.The traveler's eye picked up a turtle train,between the dotted feet a streak of tail,And followed it to where he made out vagueBut certain signs of buried turtle's egg;And probing with one finger not too rough,He found suspicious sand, and sure enough,The pocket of a little turtle mine.If there was one egg in it there were nine,Torpedo-like, with shell of gritty leatherAll packed in sand to wait the trump together.'You'd better not disturb any more,'He told the distance, 'I am armed for war.The next machine that has the power to passWill get this plasm in it goggle glass.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""8"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 8,
        ""poem.id"": 8,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/6/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The west was getting out of gold,The breath of air had died of cold,When shoeing home across the white,I thought I saw a bird alight.In summer when I passed the placeI had to stop and lift my face;A bird with an angelic giftWas singing in it sweet and swift.No bird was singing in it now.A single leaf was on a bough,And that was all there was to seeIn going twice around the tree.From my advantage on a hillI judged that such a crystal chillWas only adding frost to snowAs gilt to gold that wouldn't show.A brush had left a crooked strokeOf what was either cloud or smokeFrom north to south across the blue;A piercing little star was through."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""9"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 9,
        ""poem.id"": 9,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Empty Threat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I stay;But it isn't as ifThere wasn't always Hudson's BayAnd the fur trade,A small skiffAnd a paddle blade.I can just see my tent pegged,And me on the floor,Cross-legged,And a trapper looking in at the doorWith furs to sell.His name's Joe,Alias John,And between what he doesn't knowAnd won't tellAbout where Henry Hudson's gone,I can't say he's much help;But we get on.The seal yelpOn an ice cake.It's not men by some mistake?No,There's not a soulFor a windbreakBetween me and the North Pole—Except always John-Joe,My French Indian Esquimaux,And he's off setting trapsIn one himself perhaps.Give a headshakeOver so much bayThrown awayIn snow and mistThat doesn't exist,I was going to say,For God, man, or beast's sake,Yet does perhaps for all three.Don't ask JoeWhat it is to him.It's sometimes dimWhat it is to me,Unless it beIt's the old captain's dark fateWho failed to find or force a straitIn its two-thousand-mile coast;And his crew left him where be failed,And nothing came of all be sailed.It's to say, 'You and I—'To such a ghost—You and IOff hereWith the dead race of the Great Auk!'And, 'Better defeat almost,If seen clear,Than life's victories of doubtThat need endless talk-talkTo make them out.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""10"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 10,
        ""poem.id"": 10,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Times Table"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""More than halfway up the passWas a spring with a broken drinking glass,And whether the farmer drank or notHis mare was sure to observe the spotBy cramping the wheel on a water-bar,turning her forehead with a star,And straining her ribs for a monster sigh;To which the farmer would make reply,'A sigh for every so many breath,And for every so many sigh a death.That's what I always tell my wifeIs the multiplication table of life.'The saying may be ever so true;But it's just the kind of a thing that youNor I, nor nobody else may say,Unless our purpose is doing harm,And then I know of no better wayTo close a road, abandon a farm,Reduce the births of the human race,And bring back nature in people's place."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""11"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 11,
        ""poem.id"": 11,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Mowing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There's a place called Far-away MeadowWe never shall mow in again,Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:The meadow is finished with men.Then now is the chance for the flowersThat can't stand mowers and plowers.It must be now, through, in seasonBefore the not mowing brings trees on,Before trees, seeing the opening,March into a shadowy claim.The trees are all I'm afraid of,That flowers can't bloom in the shade of;It's no more men I'm afraid of;The meadow is done with the tame.The place for the moment is oursFor you, oh tumultuous flowers,To go to waste and go wild in,All shapes and colors of flowers,I needn't call you by name."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""12"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 12,
        ""poem.id"": 12,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Immigrants"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""No ship of all that under sail or steamHave gathered people to us more and moreBut Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dreamHas been her anxious convoy in to shore."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""13"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 13,
        ""poem.id"": 13,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On a Tree Fallen Across the Road"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""(To hear us talk)The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not barOur passage to our journey's end for good,But just to ask us who we think we areInsisting always on our own way so.She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,And make us get down in a foot of snowDebating what to do without an ax.And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:We will not be put off the final goalWe have it hidden in us to attain,Not though we have to seize earth by the poleAnd, tired of aimless circling in one place,Steer straight off after something into space."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14,
        ""poem.id"": 14,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Riders"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The surest thing there is is we are riders,And though none too successful at it, guiders,Through everything presented, land and tideAnd now the very air, of what we ride.What is this talked-of mystery of birthBut being mounted bareback on the earth?We can just see the infant up astride,His small fist buried in the bushy hide.There is our wildest mount- a headless horse.But though it runs unbridled off its course,And all our blandishments would seem defied,We have ideas yet that we haven't tried."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""15"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15,
        ""poem.id"": 15,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pauper Witch of Grafton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/1/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""NOW that they've got it settled whose I be,I'm going to tell them something they won't like:They've got it settled wrong, and I can prove it.Flattered I must be to have two towns fightingTo make a present of me to each other.They don't dispose me, either one of them,To spare them any trouble. Double trouble'sAlways the witch's motto anyway.I'll double theirs for both of them- you watch me.They'll find they've got the whole thing to do over,That is, if facts is what they want to go by.They set a lot (now don't they?) by a recordOf Arthur Amy's having once been upFor Hog Reeve in March Meeting here in Warren.I could have told them any time this twelvemonthThe Arthur Amy I was married toCouldn't have been the one they say was upIn Warren at March Meeting for the reasonHe wa'n't but fifteen at the time they say.The Arthur Amy I was married tovoted the only times he ever voted,Which wasn't many, in the town of Wentworth.One of the times was when 'twas in the warrantTo see if the town wanted to take overThe tote road to our clearing where we lived.I'll tell you who'd remember- Heman Lapish.Their Arthur Amy was the father of mine.So now they've dragged it through the law courts onceI guess they'd better drag it through again.Wentworth and Warren's both good towns to live in,Only I happen to prefer to liveIn Wentworth from now on; and when all's said,Right's right, and the temptation to do rightWhen I can hurt someone by doing itHas always been too much for me, it has.I know of some folks that'd be set upAt having in their town a noted witch:But most would have to think of the expenseThat even I would be. They ought to knowThat as a witch I'd often milk a batAnd that'd be enough to last for days.It'd make my position stronger, I think,If I was to consent to give some signTo make it surer that I was a witch?It wa'n't no sign, I s'pose, when Mallice HuseSaid that I took him out in his old ageAnd rode all over everything on himUntil I'd had him worn to skin and bones,And if I'd left him hitched unblanketedIn front of one Town Hall, I'd left him hitchedIn front of every one in Grafton County.Some cried shame on me not to blanket him,The poor old man. It would have been all rightIf some one hadn't said to gnaw the postsHe stood beside and leave his trade mark on them,So they could recognize them. Not a postThat they could hear tell of was scarified.They made him keep on gnawing till he whined.Then that same smarty someone said to look- He'd bet Huse was a cribber and had gnawedThe crib he slept in- and as sure's you're bornThey found he'd gnawed the four posts of his bed,All four of them to splinters. What did that prove?Not that he hadn't gnawed the hitching postsHe said he had besides. Because a horseGnaws in the stable ain't no proof to meHe don't gnaw trees and posts and fences too.But everybody took it for proof.I was a strapping girl of twenty then.The smarty someone who spoiled everythingWas Arthur Amy. You know who he was.That was the way he started courting me.He never said much after we were married,But I mistrusted he was none too proudOf having interfered in the Huse business.I guess he found he got more out of meBy having me a witch. Or something happenedTo turn him round. He got to saying thingsTo undo what he'd done and make it right,Like, 'No, she ain't come back from kiting yet.Last night was one of her nights out. She's kiting.She thinks when the wind makes a night of itShe might as well herself.' But he liked bestTo let on he was plagued to death with me:If anyone had seen me coming homeOver the ridgepole, 'stride of a broomstick,As often as he had in the tail of the night,He guessed they'd know what he had to put up with.Well, I showed Arthur Amy signs enoughOff from the house as far as we could keepAnd from barn smells you can't wash out of ploughed groundWith all the rain and snow of seven years;And I don't mean just skulls of Roger's RangersOn Moosilauke, but woman signs to man,Only bewitched so I would last him longer.Up where the trees grow short, the mosses tall,I made him gather me wet snow berriesOn slippery rocks beside a waterfall.I made him do it for me in the dark.And he liked everything I made him do.I hope if he is where he sees me nowHe's so far off he can't see what I've come to.You _can_ come down from everything to nothing.All is, if I'd a-known when I was youngAnd full of it, that this would be the end,It doesn't seem as if I'd had the courageTo make so free and kick up in folks' faces.I might have, but it doesn't seem as if."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""16"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16,
        ""poem.id"": 16,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Locked Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""As told to a childWhen we locked up the house at night,We always locked the flowers outsideAnd cut them off from window light.The time I dreamed the door was triedAnd brushed with buttons upon sleeves,The flowers were out there with the thieves.Yet nobody molested them!We did find one nasturtiumUpon the steps with bitten stem.I may have been to blame for that:I always thought it must have beenSome Hower I played with as I satAt dusk to watch the moon down early."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""17"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17,
        ""poem.id"": 17,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:43:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Good Hours"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I had for my winter evening walk- No one at all with whom to talk,But I had the cottages in a rowUp to their shining eyes in snow.And I thought I had the folk within:I had the sound of a violin;I had a glimpse through curtain lacesOf youthful forms and youthful faces.I had such company outward bound.I went till there were no cottages found.I turned and repented, but coming backI saw no window but that was black.Over the snow my creaking feetDisturbed the slumbering village streetLike profanation, by your leave,At ten o'clock of a winter eve."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""18"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18,
        ""poem.id"": 18,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""New Hampshire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I met a lady from the South who said(You won't believe she said it, but she said it):'None of my family ever worked, or hadA thing to sell.' I don't suppose the workMuch matters. You may work for all of me.I've seen the time I've had to work myself.The having anything to sell is whatIs the disgrace in man or state or nation.I met a traveler from ArkansasWho boasted of his state as beautifulFor diamonds and apples. 'DiamondsAnd apples in commercial quantities?'I asked him, on my guard. 'Oh, yes,' he answered,Off his. The time was evening in the Pullman.I see the porter's made your bed,' I told him.I met a Californian who wouldTalk California—a state so blessed,He said, in climate, none bad ever died thereA natural death, and Vigilance CommitteesHad had to organize to stock the graveyardsAnd vindicate the state's humanity.'Just the way Stefansson runs on,' I murmured,'About the British Arctic. That's what comesOf being in the market with a climate.'I met a poet from another state,A zealot full of fluid inspiration,Who in the name of fluid inspiration,But in the best style of bad salesmanship,Angrily tried to male me write a protest(In verse I think) against the Volstead Act.He didn't even offer me a drinkUntil I asked for one to steady him.This is called having an idea to sell.It never could have happened in New Hampshire.The only person really soiled with tradeI ever stumbled on in old New HampshireWas someone who had just come back ashamedFrom selling things in California.He'd built a noble mansard roof with ballsOn turrets, like Constantinople, deepIn woods some ten miles from a railroad station,As if to put forever out of mindThe hope of being, as we say, received.I found him standing at the close of dayInside the threshold of his open barn,Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage—And recognized him, through the iron grayIn which his face was muffled to the eyes,As an old boyhood friend, and once indeedA drover with me on the road to Brighton.His farm was 'grounds,' and not a farm at all;His house among the local sheds and shantiesRose like a factor's at a trading station.And be was rich, and I was still a rascal.I couldn't keep from asking impolitely,Where bad he been and what had he been doing?How did he get so? (Rich was understood.)In dealing in 'old rags' in San Francisco.Ob, it was terrible as well could be.We both of us turned over in our graves.Just specimens is all New Hampshire has,One each of everything as in a showcase,Which naturally she doesn't care to sell.She had one President. (Pronounce him Purse,And make the most of it for better or worse.He's your one chance to score against the state.)She had one Daniel Webster. He was allThe Daniel Webster ever was or shall be.She had the Dartmouth' needed to produce him.I call her old. She has one familyWhose claim is good to being settled hereBefore the era of colonization,And before that of exploration even.John Smith remarked them as be coasted by,Dangling their legs and fishing off a wharfAt the Isles of Shoals, and satisfied himselfThey weren't Red Indians but veritablePre-primitives of the white race, dawn people,Like those who furnished Adam's sons with wives;However uninnocent they may have beenIn being there so early in our history.They'd been there then a hundred years or more.Pity he didn't ask what they were up toAt that date with a wharf already built,And take their name. They've since told me their name—Today an honored one in Nottingham.As for what they were up to more than fishing—Suppose they weren't behaving Puritanly,The hour bad not yet struck for being good,Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical.It became an explorer of the deepNot to explore too deep in others' business.Did you but know of him, New Hampshire hasOne real reformer who would change the worldSo it would be accepted by two classes,Artists the minute they set up as artists,Before, that is, they are themselves accepted,And boys the minute they get out of college.I can't help thinking those are tests to go by.And she has one I don't know what to call him,Who comes from Philadelphia every yearWith a great flock of chickens of rare breedsHe wants to give the educationalAdvantages of growing almost wildUnder the watchful eye of hawk and eagle Dorkings because they're spoken of by Chaucer,Sussex because they're spoken of by Herrick.She has a touch of gold. New Hampshire gold—You may have heard of it. I had a farmOffered me not long since up Berlin wayWith a mine on it that was worked for gold;But not gold in commercial quantities,Just enough gold to make the engagement ringsAnd marriage rings of those who owned the farm.What gold more innocent could one have asked for?One of my children ranging after rocksLately brought home from Andover or CanaanA specimen of beryl with a traceOf radium. I know with radiumThe trace would have to be the merest trace To be below the threshold of commercial;But trust New Hampshire not to have enoughOf radium or anything to sell.A specimen of everything, I said.She has one witch—old style. She lives in Colebrook.(The only other witch I ever metWas lately at a cut-glass dinner in Boston.There were four candles and four people present.The witch was young, and beautiful (new style),And open-minded. She was free to questionHer gift for reading letters locked in boxes.Why was it so much greater when the boxesWere metal than it was when they were wooden?It made the world seem so mysterious.The S'ciety for Psychical ResearchWas cognizant. Her husband was worth millions.I think he owned some shares in Harvard College.)New Hampshire used to have at SalemA company we called the White Corpuscles,Whose duty was at any hour of nightTo rush in sheets and fool's caps where they smelledA thing the least bit doubtfully perscentedAnd give someone the Skipper Ireson's Ride.One each of everything as in a showcase.More than enough land for a specimenYou'll say she has, but there there enters inSomething else to protect her from herself.There quality makes up for quantity.Not even New Hampshire farms are much for sale.The farm I made my home on in the mountains 1 had to take by force rather than buy.I caught the owner outdoors by himselfRaking.up after winter, and I said,\"I'm going to put you off this farm: I want it.'\"Where are you going to put me? In the road?\"\"I'm going to put you on the farm next to it.\"\"Why won't the farm next to it do for you?''I like this better.' It was really better.Apples? New Hampshire has them, but unsprayed,With no suspicion in stern end or blossom end Of vitriol or arsenate of lead,And so not good for anything but cider.Her unpruned grapes are flung like lariatsFar up the birches out of reach of man.A state producing precious metals, stones,And—writing; none of these except perhapsThe precious literature in quantityOr quality to worry the producerAbout disposing of it. Do you know,Considering the market, there are morePoems produced than any other thing?No wonder poets sometimes have to seemSo much more businesslike than businessmen.Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.She's one of the two best states in the Union.Vermont's the other. And the two have beenYokefellows in the sap yoke from of oldIn many Marches. And they lie like wedges,Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end,And are a figure of the way the strongOf mind and strong of arm should fit together,One thick where one is thin and vice versa.New Hampshire raises the Connecticut In a trout hatchery near Canada,But soon divides the river with Vermont.Both are delightful states for their absurdlySmall towns—Lost Nation, Bungey, Muddy Boo,Poplin, Still Corners (so called not becauseThe place is silent all day long, nor yetBecause it boasts a whisky still—becauseIt set out once to be a city and stillIs only corners, crossroads in a wood).And I remember one whose name appearedBetween the pictures on a movie screenElection night once in Franconia,When everything had gone RepublicanAnd Democrats were sore in need of comfort:Easton goes Democratic, Wilson 4Hughes 2. And everybody to the saddestLaughed the loud laugh the big laugh at the little.New York (five million) laughs at Manchester,Manchester (sixty or seventy thousand) laughsAt Littleton (four thousand), LittletonLaughs at Franconia (seven hundred), andFranconia laughs, I fear—-did laugh that night­- At Easton. What has Easton left to laugh at,And like the actress exclaim 'Oh, my God' at?There's Bungey; and for Bungey there are towns,Whole townships named but without population.Anything I can say about New HampshireWill serve almost as well about Vermont,Excepting that they differ in their mountains.The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight;New Hampshire mountains Curl up in a coil.I had been coming to New Hampshire mountains.And here I am and what am I to say?Here first my theme becomes embarrassing.Emerson said, 'The God who made New HampshireTaunted the lofty land with little men.'Anotner Massachusetts poet said, 'I go no more to summer in New Hampshire.I've given up my summer place in Dublin.'But when I asked to know what ailed New Hampshire,She said she couldn't stand the people in it,The little men (it's Massachusetts speaking). And when I asked to know what ailed the people,She said, 'Go read your own books and find out.'I may as well confess myself the authorOf several books against the world in general.To take them as against a special state Or even nation's to restrict my meaning.I'm what is called a sensibilitist,Or otherwise an environmentalist.I refuse to adapt myself a miteTo any change from hot to cold, from wet To dry, from poor to rich, or back again.I make a virtue of my sufferingFrom nearly everything that goes on round me.In other words, I know wherever I am,Being the creature of literature I am, 1 sball not lack for pain to keep me awake.Kit Marlowe taught me how to say my prayers:'Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.'Samoa, Russia, Ireland I complain of,No less than England, France, and Italy. Because I wrote my novels in New HampshireIs no proof that I aimed them at New Hampshire.When I left Massachusetts years agoBetween two days, the reason why I soughtNew Hampshire, not Connecticut,Rhode Island, New York, or Vermont was this:Where I was living then, New Hampshire offeredThe nearest boundary to escape across.I hadn't an illusion in my handbagAbout the people being better thereThan those I left behind. I thought they weren't.I thought they couldn't be. And yet they were.I'd sure had no such friends in MassachusettsAs Hall of Windham, Gay of Atkinson,Bartlett of Raymond (now of Colorado),Harris of Derry, and Lynch of Bethlehem.The glorious bards of Massachusetts seemTo want to make New Hampshire people over.They taunt the lofty land with little men.I don't know what to say about the people.For art's sake one could almost wish them worseRather than better. How are we to writeThe Russian novel in AmericaAs long as life goes so unterribly?There is the pinch from which our only outcry In literature to date is heard to come.We get what little misery we canOut of not having cause for misery.It makes the guild of novel writers sickTo be expected to be DostoievskisOn nothing worse than too much luck and comfort.This is not sorrow, though; it's just the vapors,And recognized as such in Russia itselfUnder the new regime, and so forbidden.If well it is with Russia, then feel free To say so or be stood against the wallAnd shot. It's Pollyanna now or death.This, then, is the new freedom we hear tell of;And very sensible. No state can buildA literature that shall at once be soundAnd sad on a foundation of well-being.To show the level of intelligenceAmong us: it was just a Warren farmerWhose horse had pulled him short up in the roadBy me, a stranger. This is what he said,From nothing but embarrassment and wantOf anything more sociable to say:'You hear those bound dogs sing on Moosilauke?Well, they remind me of the hue and cryWe've heard against the Mid - Victorians And never rightly understood till BryanRetired from politics and joined the chorus.The matter with the Mid-VictoriansSeems to have been a man named Joh n L. Darwin.''Go 'long,' I said to him, he to his horse.I knew a man who failing as a farmerBurned down his farmhouse for the fire insurance,And spent the proceeds on a telescopeTo satisfy a lifelong curiosityAbout our place among the infinities.And how was that for otherworldliness?If I must choose which I would elevate —The people or the already lofty mountainsI'd elevate the already lofty mountainsThe only fault I find with old New Hampshire Is that her mountains aren't quite high enough.I was not always so; I've come to be so.How, to my sorrow, how have I attainedA height from which to look down criticalOn mountains? What has given me assuranceTo say what height becomes New Hampshire mountains,Or any mountains? Can it be some strengthI feel, as of an earthquake in my back,To heave them higher to the morning star?Can it be foreign travel in the Alps?Or having seen and credited a momentThe solid molding of vast peaks of cloudBehind the pitiful realityOf Lincoln, Lafayette, and Liberty?Or some such sense as says bow high shall jetThe fountain in proportion to the basin?No, none of these has raised me to my throneOf intellectual dissatisfaction,But the sad accident of having seenOur actual mountains given in a mapOf early times as twice the height they are—Ten thousand feet instead of only five—Which shows how sad an accident may be.Five thousand is no longer high enough.Whereas I never had a good ideaAbout improving people in the world,Here I am overfertile in suggestion,And cannot rest from planning day or nightHow high I'd thrust the peaks in summer snowTo tap the upper sky and draw a flowOf frosty night air on the vale belowDown from the stars to freeze the dew as starry.The more the sensibilitist I amThe more I seem to want my mountains wild;The way the wiry gang-boss liked the logjam. After he'd picked the lock and got it started,He dodged a log that lifted like an armAgainst the sky to break his back for him,Then came in dancing, skipping with his lifeAcross the roar and chaos, and the words We saw him say along the zigzag journeyWere doubtless as the words we heard him sayOn coming nearer: 'Wasn't she an i-dealSon-of-a-bitch? You bet she was an i-deal.'For all her mountains fall a little short,Her people not quite short enough for Art,She's still New Hampshire; a most restful state.Lately in converse with a New York alecAbout the new school of the pseudo-phallic,I found myself in a close corner whereI bad to make an almost funny choice.'Choose you which you will be—a prude, or puke,Mewling and puking in the public arms.''Me for the hills where I don't have to choose.\"'But if you bad to choose, which would you be?' 1 wouldn't be a prude afraid of nature.I know a man who took a double axAnd went alone against a grove of trees;But his heart failing him, he dropped the axAnd ran for shelter quoting Matthew Arnold:''Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood':There s been enough shed without shedding mine.Remember Birnam Wood! The wood's in flux!'He had a special terror of the fluxThat showed itself in dendrophobia.The only decent tree had been to millAnd educated into boards, be said.He knew too well for any earthly useThe line where man leaves off and nature starts.And never overstepped it save in dreams.He stood on the safe side of the line talking—Which is sheer Matthew Arnoldism,The cult of one who owned himself 'a foiledCircuitous wanderer,' and 'took dejectedlyHis seat upon the intellectual throne'—Agreed in 'frowning on these improvisedAltars the woods are full of nowadays,Again as in the days when Ahaz sinnedBy worship under green trees in the open.Scarcely a mile but that I come on one,A black-checked stone and stick of rain-washed charcoal.Even to say the groves were God's first templesComes too near to Ahaz' sin for safety.Nothing not built with hands of course is sacred.But here is not a question of what's sacred;Rather of what to face or run away from.I'd hate to be a runaway from nature.And neither would I choose to be a pukeWho cares not what be does in company,And when he can't do anything, falls backOn words, and tries his worst to make words speakLouder than actions, and sometimes achieves it.It seems a narrow choice the age insists on8ow about being a good Greek, for instance)That course, they tell me, isn't offered this year.'Come, but this isn't choosing—puke or prude?'Well, if I have to choose one or the other,I choose to be a plain New Hampshire farmerWith an income in cash of, say, a thousand(From, say, a publisher in New York City). It's restful to arrive at a decision,And restful just to think about New Hampshire.At present I am living in Vermont."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""19"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19,
        ""poem.id"": 19,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Kitchen Chimney"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/27/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Builder, in building the little house,In every way you may please yourself;But please please me in the kitchen chimney:Don't build me a chimney upon a shelf.However far you must go for bricks,Whatever they cost a-piece or a pound,But me enough for a full-length chimney,And build the chimney clear from the ground.It's not that I'm greatly afraid of fire,But I never heard of a house that throve(And I know of one that didn't thrive)Where the chimney started above the stove.And I dread the ominous stain of tarThat there always is on the papered walls,And the smell of fire drowned in rainThat there always is when the chimney's false.A shelf's for a clock or vase or picture,But I don't see why it should have to bearA chimney that only would serve to remind meOf castles I used to build in air."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""20"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20,
        ""poem.id"": 20,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Birthplace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Here further up the mountain slopeThan there was every any hope,My father built, enclosed a spring,Strung chains of wall round everything,Subdued the growth of earth to grass,And brought our various lives to pass.A dozen girls and boys we were.The mountain seemed to like the stir,And made of us a little while- With always something in her smile.Today she wouldn't know our name.(No girl's, of course, has stayed the same.)The mountain pushed us off her knees.And now her lap is full of trees."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""21"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 21,
        ""poem.id"": 21,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Directive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/26/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Back out of all this now too much for us,Back in a time made simple by the lossOf detail, burned, dissolved, and broken offLike graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,There is a house that is no more a houseUpon a farm that is no more a farmAnd in a town that is no more a town.The road there, if you'll let a guide direct youWho only has at heart your getting lost,May seem as if it should have been a quarry -Great monolithic knees the former townLong since gave up pretense of keeping covered.And there's a story in a book about it:Besides the wear of iron wagon wheelsThe ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,The chisel work of an enormous GlacierThat braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.You must not mind a certain coolness from himStill said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.Nor need you mind the serial ordealOf being watched from forty cellar holesAs if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.As for the woods' excitement over youThat sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,Charge that to upstart inexperience.Where were they all not twenty years ago?They think too much of having shaded outA few old pecker-fretted apple trees.Make yourself up a cheering song of howSomeone's road home from work this once was,Who may be just ahead of you on footOr creaking with a buggy load of grain.The height of the adventure is the heightOf country where two village cultures fadedInto each other. Both of them are lost.And if you're lost enough to find yourselfBy now, pull in your ladder road behind youAnd put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.Then make yourself at home. The only fieldNow left's no bigger than a harness gall.First there's the children's house of make-believe,Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,The playthings in the playhouse of the children.Weep for what little things could make them glad.Then for the house that is no more a house,But only a belilaced cellar hole,Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.Your destination and your destiny'sA brook that was the water of the house,Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,Too lofty and original to rage.(We know the valley streams that when arousedWill leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)I have kept hidden in the instep archOf an old cedar at the watersideA broken drinking goblet like the GrailUnder a spell so the wrong ones can't find it,So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.(I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)Here are your waters and your watering place.Drink and be whole again beyond confusion."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""22"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 22,
        ""poem.id"": 22,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Snow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/23/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The three stood listening to a fresh accessOf wind that caught against the house a moment,Gulped snow, and then blew free again-the ColesDressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,Meserve belittled in the great skin coat he wore.Meserve was first to speak. He pointed backwardOver his shoulder with his pipe-stem, saying,'You can just see it glancing off the roofMaking a great scroll upward toward the sky,Long enough for recording all our names on.-I think I'll just call up my wife and tell herI'm here-so far-and starting on again.I'll call her softly so that if she's wiseAnd gone to sleep, she needn't wake to answer.'Three times he barely stirred the bell, then listened.'Why, Lett, still up? Lett, I'm at Cole's. I'm late.I called you up to say Good-night from hereBefore I went to say Good-morning there.-I thought I would.- I know, but, Lett-I know-I could, but what's the sense? The rest won't beSo bad.- Give me an hour for it.- Ho, ho,Three hours to here! But that was all up hill;The rest is down.- Why no, no, not a wallow:They kept their heads and took their time to itLike darlings, both of them. They're in the barn.-My dear, I'm coming just the same. I didn'tCall you to ask you to invite me home.-'He lingered for some word she wouldn't say,Said it at last himself, 'Good-night,' and then,Getting no answer, closed the telephone.The three stood in the lamplight round the tableWith lowered eyes a moment till he said,'I'll just see how the horses are.''Yes, do,'Both the Coles said together. Mrs. ColeAdded: 'You can judge better after seeing.-I want you here with me, Fred. Leave him here,Brother Meserve. You know to find your wayOut through the shed.''I guess I know my way,I guess I know where I can find my nameCarved in the shed to tell me who I amIf it don't tell me where I am. I usedTo play-''You tend your horses and come back.Fred Cole, you're going to let him!''Well, aren't you?How can you help yourself?''I called him Brother.Why did I call him that?''It's right enough.That's all you ever heard him called round here.He seems to have lost off his Christian name.''Christian enough I should call that myself.He took no notice, did he? Well, at leastI didn't use it out of love of him,The dear knows. I detest the thought of himWith his ten children under ten years old.I hate his wretched little Racker Sect,All's ever I heard of it, which isn't much.But that's not saying-Look, Fred Cole, it's twelve,Isn't it, now? He's been here half an hour.He says he left the village store at nine.Three hours to do four miles-a mile an hourOr not much better. Why, it doesn't seemAs if a man could move that slow and move.Try to think what he did with all that time.And three miles more to go!''Don't let him go.Stick to him, Helen. Make him answer you.That sort of man talks straight on all his lifeFrom the last thing he said himself, stone deafTo anything anyone else may say.I should have thought, though, you could make him hear you.''What is he doing out a night like this?Why can't he stay at home?''He had to preach.''It's no night to be out.''He may be small,He may be good, but one thing's sure, he's tough.''And strong of stale tobacco.''He'll pull through.''You only say so. Not another houseOr shelter to put into from this placeTo theirs. I'm going to call his wife again.''Wait and he may. Let's see what he will do.Let's see if he will think of her again.But then I doubt he's thinking of himselfHe doesn't look on it as anything.''He shan't go-there!''It is a night, my dear.''One thing: he didn't drag God into it.''He don't consider it a case for God.''You think so, do you? You don't know the kind.He's getting up a miracle this minute.Privately-to himself, right now, he's thinkingHe'll make a case of it if he succeeds,But keep still if he fails.''Keep still all over.He'll be dead-dead and buried.''Such a trouble!Not but I've every reason not to careWhat happens to him if it only takesSome of the sanctimonious conceitOut of one of those pious scalawags.''Nonsense to that! You want to see him safe.''You like the runt.''Don't you a little?''Well,I don't like what he's doing, which is whatYou like, and like him for.''Oh, yes you do.You like your fun as well as anyone;Only you women have to put these airs onTo impress men. You've got us so ashamedOf being men we can't look at a good fightBetween two boys and not feel bound to stop it.Let the man freeze an ear or two, I say.-He's here. I leave him all to you. Go inAnd save his life.- All right, come in, Meserve.Sit down, sit down. How did you find the horses?''Fine, fine.''And ready for some more? My wife hereSays it won't do. You've got to give it up.''Won't you to please me? Please! If I say please?Mr. Meserve, I'll leave it to your wife.What did your wife say on the telephone?'Meserve seemed to heed nothing but the lampOr something not far from it on the table.By straightening out and lifting a forefinger,He pointed with his hand from where it layLike a white crumpled spider on his knee:'That leaf there in your open book! It movedJust then, I thought. It's stood erect like that,There on the table, ever since I came,Trying to turn itself backward or forward,I've had my eye on it to make out which;If forward, then it's with a friend's impatience-You see I know-to get you on to thingsIt wants to see how you will take, if backwardIt's from regret for something you have passedAnd failed to see the good of. Never mind,Things must expect to come in front of usA many times-I don't say just how many-That varies with the things-before we see them.One of the lies would make it out that nothingEver presents itself before us twice.Where would we be at last if that were so?Our very life depends on everything'sRecurring till we answer from within.The thousandth time may prove the charm.- That leaf!It can't turn either way. It needs the wind's help.But the wind didn't move it if it moved.It moved itself. The wind's at naught in here.It couldn't stir so sensitively poisedA thing as that. It couldn't reach the lampTo get a puff of black smoke from the flame,Or blow a rumple in the collie's coat.You make a little foursquare block of air,Quiet and light and warm, in spite of allThe illimitable dark and cold and storm,And by so doing give these three, lamp, dog,And book-leaf, that keep near you, their repose;Though for all anyone can tell, reposeMay be the thing you haven't, yet you give it.So false it is that what we haven't we can't give;So false, that what we always say is true.I'll have to turn the leaf if no one else will.It won't lie down. Then let it stand. Who cares?''I shouldn't want to hurry you, Meserve,But if you're going- Say you'll stay, you know?But let me raise this curtain on a scene,And show you how it's piling up against you.You see the snow-white through the white of frost?Ask Helen how far up the sash it's climbedSince last we read the gage.''It looks as ifSome pallid thing had squashed its features flatAnd its eyes shut with overeagernessTo see what people found so interestingIn one another, and had gone to sleepOf its own stupid lack of understanding,Or broken its white neck of mushroom stuffShort off, and died against the window-pane.''Brother Meserve, take care, you'll scare yourselfMore than you will us with such nightmare talk.It's you it matters to, because it's youWho have to go out into it alone.''Let him talk, Helen, and perhaps he'll stay.''Before you drop the curtain-I'm reminded:You recollect the boy who came out hereTo breathe the air one winter-had a roomDown at the Averys'? Well, one sunny morningAfter a downy storm, he passed our placeAnd found me banking up the house with snow.And I was burrowing in deep for warmth,Piling it well above the window-sills.The snow against the window caught his eye.'Hey, that's a pretty thought'-those were his words.'So you can think it's six feet deep outside,While you sit warm and read up balanced rations.You can't get too much winter in the winter.'Those were his words. And he went home and allBut banked the daylight out of Avery's windows.Now you and I would go to no such length.At the same time you can't deny it makesIt not a mite worse, sitting here, we three,Playing our fancy, to have the snowline runSo high across the pane outside. There whereThere is a sort of tunnel in the frostMore like a tunnel than a hole-way downAt the far end of it you see a stirAnd quiver like the frayed edge of the driftBlown in the wind. I like that-I like that.Well, now I leave you, people.''Come, Meserve,We thought you were deciding not to go-The ways you found to say the praise of comfortAnd being where you are. You want to stay.''I'll own it's cold for such a fall of snow.This house is frozen brittle, all exceptThis room you sit in. If you think the windSounds further off, it's not because it's dying;You're further under in the snow-that's all-And feel it less. Hear the soft bombs of dustIt bursts against us at the chimney mouth,And at the eaves. I like it from insideMore than I shall out in it. But the horsesAre rested and it's time to say good-night,And let you get to bed again. Good-night,Sorry I had to break in on your sleep.''Lucky for you you did. Lucky for youYou had us for a half-way stationTo stop at. If you were the kind of manPaid heed to women, you'd take my adviceAnd for your family's sake stay where you are.But what good is my saying it over and over?You've done more than you had a right to thinkYou could do-now. You know the risk you takeIn going on.''Our snow-storms as a ruleAren't looked on as man-killers, and althoughI'd rather be the beast that sleeps the sleepUnder it all, his door sealed up and lost,Than the man fighting it to keep above it,Yet think of the small birds at roost and notIn nests. Shall I be counted less than they are?Their bulk in water would be frozen rockIn no time out to-night. And yet to-morrowThey will come budding boughs from tree to treeFlirting their wings and saying Chickadee,As if not knowing what you meant by the word storm.''But why when no one wants you to go on?Your wife-she doesn't want you to. We don't,And you yourself don't want to. Who else is there?''Save us from being cornered by a woman.Well, there's'-She told Fred afterward that inThe pause right there, she thought the dreaded wordWas coming, 'God.' But no, he only said'Well, there's-the storm. That says I must go on.That wants me as a war might if it came.Ask any man.'He threw her that as somethingTo last her till he got outside the door.He had Cole with him to the barn to see him off.When Cole returned he found his wife still standingBeside the table near the open book,Not reading it.'Well, what kind of a manDo you call that?' she said.'He had the giftOf words, or is it tongues, I ought to say?''Was ever such a man for seeing likeness?''Or disregarding people's civil questions-What? We've found out in one hour more about himThan we had seeing him pass by in the roadA thousand times. If that's the way he preaches!You didn't think you'd keep him after all.Oh, I'm not blaming you. He didn't leave youMuch say in the matter, and I'm just as gladWe're not in for a night of him. No sleepIf he had stayed. The least thing set him going.It's quiet as an empty church without him.''But how much better off are we as it is?We'll have to sit here till we know he's safe.''Yes, I suppose you'll want to, but I shouldn't.He knows what he can do, or he wouldn't try.Get into bed I say, and get some rest.He won't come back, and if he telephones,It won't be for an hour or two.''Well then- We can't be any help by sitting hereAnd living his fight through with him, I suppose.'- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Cole had been telephoning in the dark.Mrs. Cole's voice came from an inner room:'Did she call you or you call her?''She me.You'd better dress: you won't go back to bed.We must have been asleep: it's three and after.''Had she been ringing long? I'll get my wrapper.I want to speak to her.''All she said was,He hadn't come and had he really started.''She knew he had, poor thing, two hours ago.''He had the shovel. He'll have made a fight.''Why did I ever let him leave this house!''Don't begin that. You did the best you couldTo keep him-though perhaps you didn't quiteConceal a wish to see him show the spunkTo disobey you. Much his wife'll thank you.''Fred, after all I said! You shan't make outThat it was any way but what it was.Did she let on by any word she saidShe didn't thank me?''When I told her 'Gone,''Well then,' she said, and 'Well then'-like a threat.And then her voice came scraping slow: 'Oh, you,Why did you let him go'?''Asked why we let him?You let me there. I'll ask her why she let him.She didn't dare to speak when he was here.Their number's-twenty-one? The thing won't work.Someone's receiver's down. The handle stumbles.The stubborn thing, the way it jars your arm!It's theirs. She's dropped it from her hand and gone.''Try speaking. Say 'Hello'!''Hello. Hello.''What do you hear?''I hear an empty room-You know-it sounds that way. And yes, I hear-I think I hear a clock-and windows rattling.No step though. If she's there she's sitting down.''Shout, she may hear you.''Shouting is no good.''Keep speaking then.''Hello. Hello. Hello.You don't suppose-? She wouldn't go out doors?''I'm half afraid that's just what she might do.''And leave the children?''Wait and call again.You can't hear whether she has left the doorWide open and the wind's blown out the lampAnd the fire's died and the room's dark and cold?''One of two things, either she's gone to bedOr gone out doors.''In which case both are lost.Do you know what she's like? Have you ever met her?It's strange she doesn't want to speak to us.''Fred, see if you can hear what I hear. Come.''A clock maybe.''Don't you hear something else?''Not talking.''No.''Why, yes, I hear-what is it?''What do you say it is?''A baby's crying!Frantic it sounds, though muffled and far off.''Its mother wouldn't let it cry like that,Not if she's there.''What do you make of it?''There's only one thing possible to make,That is, assuming-that she has gone out.Of course she hasn't though.' They both sat downHelpless. 'There's nothing we can do till morning.''Fred, I shan't let you think of going out.''Hold on.' The double bell began to chirp.They started up. Fred took the telephone.'Hello, Meserve. You're there, then!-And your wife?Good! Why I asked-she didn't seem to answer.He says she went to let him in the barn.-We're glad. Oh, say no more about it, man.Drop in and see us when you're passing.''Well,She has him then, though what she wants him forI don't see.''Possibly not for herself.Maybe she only wants him for the children.''The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing.What spoiled our night was to him just his fun.What did he come in for?-To talk and visit?Thought he'd just call to tell us it was snowing.If he thinks he is going to make our houseA halfway coffee house 'twixt town and nowhere- ''I thought you'd feel you'd been too much concerned.''You think you haven't been concerned yourself.''If you mean he was inconsiderateTo rout us out to think for him at midnightAnd then take our advice no more than nothing,Why, I agree with you. But let's forgive him.We've had a share in one night of his life.What'll you bet he ever calls again?'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""23"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 23,
        ""poem.id"": 23,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Investment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Over back where they speak of life as staying('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'),There was an old, old house renewed with paint,And in it a piano loudly playing.Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger,Among unearthed potatoes standing still,Was counting winter dinners, one a hill,With half an ear to the piano's vigor.All that piano and new paint back there,Was it some money suddenly come into?Or some extravagance young love had been to?Or old love on an impulse not to care- Not to sink under being man and wife,But get some color and music out of life?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""24"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 24,
        ""poem.id"": 24,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When I spread out my hand here today,I catch no more than a rayTo feel of between thumb and fingers;No lasting effect of it lingers.There was one time and only the oneWhen dust really took in the sun;And from that one intake of fireAll creatures still warmly suspire.And if men have watched a long timeAnd never seen sun-smitten slimeAgain come to life and crawl off,We not be too ready to scoff.God once declared he was trueAnd then took the veil and withdrew,And remember how final a hushThen descended of old on the bush.God once spoke to people by name.The sun once imparted its flame.One impulse persists as our breath;The other persists as our faith."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""25"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 25,
        ""poem.id"": 25,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/5/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Old Davis owned a solid mica mountainIn Dalton that would someday make his fortune.There'd been some Boston people out to see it:And experts said that deep down in the mountainThe mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows.He'd like to take me there and show it to me.'I'll tell you what you show me. You rememberYou said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman,The early Mormons made a settlementAnd built a stone baptismal font outdoors-But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountainTo go West to a worse fight with the desert.You said you'd seen the stone baptismal font.Well, take me there.'Someday I will.''Today.''Huh, that old bathtub, what is that to see?Let's talk about it.''Let's go see the place.''To shut you up I'll tell you what I'll do:I'll find that fountain if it takes all summer,And both of our united strengths, to do it.''You've lost it, then?''Not so but I can find it.No doubt it's grown up some to woods around it.The mountain may have shifted since I saw itIn eighty-five.''As long ago as that?''If I remember rightly, it had sprungA leak and emptied then. And forty yearsCan do a good deal to bad masonry.You won't see any Mormon swimming in it.But you have said it, and we're off to find it.Old as I am, I'm going to let myselfBe dragged by you all over everywhere- ''I thought you were a guide.''I am a guide,And that's why I can't decently refuse you.'We made a day of it out of the world,Ascending to descend to reascend.The old man seriously took his bearings,And spoke his doubts in every open place.We came out on a look-off where we facedA cliff, and on the cliff a bottle painted,Or stained by vegetation from above,A likeness to surprise the thrilly tourist.'Well, if I haven't brought you to the fountain,At least I've brought you to the famous Bottle.''I won't accept the substitute. It's empty.''So's everything.''I want my fountain.''I guess you'd find the fountain just as empty.And anyway this tells me where I am.''Hadn't you long suspected where you were?''You mean miles from that Mormon settlement?Look here, you treat your guide with due respectIf you don't want to spend the night outdoors.I vow we must be near the place from whereThe two converging slides, the avalanches,On Marshall, look like donkey's ears.We may as well see that and save the day.''Don't donkey's ears suggest we shake our own?''For God's sake, aren't you fond of viewing nature?You don't like nature. All you like is books.What signify a donkey's cars and bottle,However natural? Give you your books!Well then, right here is where I show you books.Come straight down off this mountain just as fastAs we can fall and keep a-bouncing on our feet.It's hell for knees unless done hell-for-leather.'Be ready, I thought, for almost anything.We struck a road I didn't recognize,But welcomed for the chance to lave my shoesIn dust once more. We followed this a mile,Perhaps, to where it ended at a houseI didn't know was there. It was the kindTo bring me to for broad-board paneling.I never saw so good a house deserted.'Excuse me if I ask you in a windowThat happens to be broken, Davis said.'The outside doors as yet have held against us.I want to introduce you to the peopleWho used to live here. They were Robinsons.You must have heard of Clara Robinson,The poetess who wrote the book of versesAnd had it published. It was all aboutThe posies on her inner windowsill,And the birds on her outer windowsill,And how she tended both, or had them tended:She never tended anything herself.She was 'shut in' for life. She lived her wholeLife long in bed, and wrote her things in bed.I'll show You how she had her sills extendedTo entertain the birds and hold the flowers.Our business first's up attic with her books.'We trod uncomfortably on crunching glassThrough a house stripped of everythingExcept, it seemed, the poetess's poems.Books, I should say!- if books are what is needed.A whole edition in a packing caseThat, overflowing like a horn of plenty,Or like the poetess's heart of love,Had spilled them near the window, toward the lightWhere driven rain had wet and swollen them.Enough to stock a village library-Unfortunately all of one kind, though.They bad been brought home from some publisherAnd taken thus into the family.Boys and bad hunters had known what to doWith stone and lead to unprotected glass:Shatter it inward on the unswept floors.How had the tender verse escaped their outrage?By being invisible for what it was,Or else by some remoteness that defied themTo find out what to do to hurt a poem.Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book,To send it sailing out the attic windowTill it caught wind and, opening out its covers,Tried to improve on sailing like a tileBy flying like a bird (silent in flight,But all the burden of its body song),Only to tumble like a stricken bird,And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved.Books were not thrown irreverently about.They simply lay where someone now and then,Having tried one, had dropped it at his feetAnd left it lying where it fell rejected.Here were all those the poetess's lifeHad been too short to sell or give away.'Take one,' Old Davis bade me graciously.'Why not take two or three?''Take all you want.'Good-looking books like that.' He picked one freshIn virgin wrapper from deep in the box,And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness.He read in one and I read in another,Both either looking for or finding something.The attic wasps went missing by like bullets.I was soon satisfied for the time being.All the way home I kept rememberingThe small book in my pocket. It was there.The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heavenAt having eased her heart of one more copy-Legitimately. My demand upon her,Though slight, was a demand. She felt the tug.In time she would be rid of all her books."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""26"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 26,
        ""poem.id"": 26,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Misgiving"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind!'The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;But a sleep oppresses them as they go,And they end by bidding them as they go,And they end by bidding him stay with them.Since ever they flung abroad in springThe leaves had promised themselves this flight,Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.And now they answer his summoning blastWith an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,Or at utmost a little reluctant whirlThat drops them no further than where they were.I only hope that when I am freeAs they are free to go in questOf the knowledge beyond the bounds of lifeIt may not seem better to me to rest."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""27"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 27,
        ""poem.id"": 27,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pea Brush"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I WALKED down alone Sunday after churchTo the place where John has been cutting treesTo see for myself about the birchHe said I could have to bush my peas.The sun in the new-cut narrow gapWas hot enough for the first of May,And stifling hot with the odor of sapFrom stumps still bleeding their life away.The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrillWherever the ground was low and wet,The minute they heard my step went stillTo watch me and see what I came to get.Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—All fresh and sound from the recent axe.Time someone came with cart and pairAnd got them off the wild flower's backs.They might be good for garden thingsTo curl a little finger round,The same as you seize cat's-cradle strings,And lift themselves up off the ground.Small good to anything growing wild,They were crooking many a trilliumThat had budded before the boughs were piledAnd since it was coming up had to come."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""28"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 28,
        ""poem.id"": 28,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Winter Eden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A winter garden in an alder swamp,Where conies now come out to sun and romp,As near a paradise as it can beAnd not melt snow or start a dormant tree.It lifts existence on a plane of snowOne level higher than the earth below,One level nearer heaven overhead,And last year's berries shining scarlet red.It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beastWhere he can stretch and hold his highest featOn some wild apple tree's young tender bark,What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.So near to paradise all pairing ends:Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,Content with bud-inspecting. They presumeTo say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.A feather-hammer gives a double knock.This Eden day is done at two o'clock.An hour of winter day might seem too shortTo make it worth life's while to wake and sport."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""29"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 29,
        ""poem.id"": 29,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Flood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Blood has been harder to dam back than water.Just when we think we have it impounded safeBehind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;But power of blood itself releases blood.It goes by might of being such a floodHeld high at so unnatural a level.It will have outlet, brave and not so brave.weapons of war and implements of peaceAre but the points at which it finds release.And now it is once more the tidal waveThat when it has swept by leaves summits stained.Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""30"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 30,
        ""poem.id"": 30,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Atmosphere"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Inscription for a Garden WallWinds blow the open grassy places bleak;But where this old wall burns a sunny cheek,They eddy over it too toppling weakTo blow the earth or anything self-clear;Moisture and color and odor thicken here.The hours of daylight gather atmosphere."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""31"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 31,
        ""poem.id"": 31,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:44:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sand Dunes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Sea waves are green and wet,But up from where they die,Rise others vaster yet,And those are brown and dry.They are the sea made landTo come at the fisher town,And bury in solid sandThe men she could not drown.She may know cove and cape,But she does not know mankindIf by any change of shape,She hopes to cut off mind.Men left her a ship to sink:They can leave her a hut as well;And be but more free to thinkFor the one more cast-off shell."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""32"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 32,
        ""poem.id"": 32,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In The Home Stretch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""SHE stood against the kitchen sink, and lookedOver the sink out through a dusty windowAt weeds the water from the sink made tall.She wore her cape; her hat was in her hand.Behind her was confusion in the room,Of chairs turned upside down to sit like peopleIn other chairs, and something, come to look,For every room a house has—parlor, bed-room,And dining-room—thrown pell-mell in the kitchen.And now and then a smudged, infernal faceLooked in a door behind her and addressedHer back. She always answered without turning.\"Where will I put this walnut bureau, lady?\"\"Put it on top of something that's on topOf something else,\" she laughed. \"Oh, put it whereYou can to-night, and go. It's almost dark;You must be getting started back to town.\"Another blackened face thrust in and lookedAnd smiled, and when she did not turn, spoke gently,\"What are you seeing out the window, lady?\"\"Never was I beladied so before.Would evidence of having been called ladyMore than so many times make me a ladyIn common law, I wonder.\"\"But I ask,What are you seeing out the window, lady?\"\"What I'll be seeing more of in the yearsTo come as here I stand and go the roundOf many plates with towels many times.\"\"And what is that? You only put me off.\"\"Rank weeds that love the water from the dish-panMore than some women like the dish-pan, Joe;A little stretch of mowing-field for you;Not much of that until I come to woodsThat end all. And it's scarce enough to callA view.\"\"And yet you think you like it, dear?\"\"That's what you're so concerned to know! You hopeI like it. Bang goes something big awayOff there upstairs. The very tread of menAs great as those is shattering to the frameOf such a little house. Once left alone,You and I, dear, will go with softer stepsUp and down stairs and through the rooms, and noneBut sudden winds that snatch them from our handsWill ever slam the doors.\"\"I think you seeMore than you like to own to out that window.\"\"No; for besides the things I tell you of,I only see the years. They come and goIn alternation with the weeds, the field,The wood.\"\"What kind of years?\"\"Why, latter years—Different from early years.\"\"I see them, too.You didn't count them?\"\"No, the further offSo ran together that I didn't try to.It can scarce be that they would be in numberWe'd care to know, for we are not young now.And bang goes something else away off there.It sounds as if it were the men went down,And every crash meant one less to returnTo lighted city streets we, too, have known,But now are giving up for country darkness.\"\"Come from that window where you see too much for me,And take a livelier view of things from here.They're going. Watch this husky swarming upOver the wheel into the sky-high seat,Lighting his pipe now, squinting down his noseAt the flame burning downward as he sucks it.\"\"See how it makes his nose-side bright, a proofHow dark it's getting. Can you tell what timeIt is by that? Or by the moon? The new moon!What shoulder did I see her over? Neither.A wire she is of silver, as new as weTo everything. Her light won't last us long.It's something, though, to know we're going to have herNight after night and stronger every nightTo see us through our first two weeks. But, Joe,The stove! Before they go! Knock on the window;Ask them to help you get it on its feet.We stand here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back!\"\"They're not gone yet.\"\"We've got to have the stove,Whatever else we want for. And a light.Have we a piece of candle if the lampAnd oil are buried out of reach?\"AgainThe house was full of tramping, and the dark,Door-filling men burst in and seized the stove.A cannon-mouth-like hole was in the wall,To which they set it true by eye; and thenCame up the jointed stovepipe in their hands,So much too light and airy for their strengthIt almost seemed to come ballooning up,Slipping from clumsy clutches toward the ceiling.\"A fit!\" said one, and banged a stovepipe shoulder.\"It's good luck when you move in to beginWith good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind,It's not so bad in the country, settled down,When people 're getting on in life, You'll like it.\"Joe said: \"You big boys ought to find a farm,And make good farmers, and leave other fellowsThe city work to do. There's not enoughFor everybody as it is in there.\"\"God!\" one said wildly, and, when no one spoke:\"Say that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm.\"But Jimmy only made his jaw recedeFool-like, and rolled his eyes as if to sayHe saw himself a farmer. Then there was a French boyWho said with seriousness that made them laugh,\"Ma friend, you ain't know what it is you're ask.\"He doffed his cap and held it with both handsAcross his chest to make as 'twere a bow:\"We're giving you our chances on de farm.\"And then they all turned to with deafening bootsAnd put each other bodily out of the house.\"Goodby to them! We puzzle them. They think—I don't know what they think we see in whatThey leave us to: that pasture slope that seemsThe back some farm presents us; and your woodsTo northward from your window at the sink,Waiting to steal a step on us wheneverWe drop our eyes or turn to other things,As in the game ‘Ten-step' the children play.\"\"Good boys they seemed, and let them love the city.All they could say was ‘God!' when you proposedTheir coming out and making useful farmers.\"\"Did they make something lonesome go through you?It would take more than them to sicken you—Us of our bargain. But they left us soAs to our fate, like fools past reasoning with.They almost shook me.\"\"It's all so muchWhat we have always wanted, I confessIt's seeming bad for a moment makes it seemEven worse still, and so on down, down, down.It's nothing; it's their leaving us at dusk.I never bore it well when people went.The first night after guests have gone, the houseSeems haunted or exposed. I always takeA personal interest in the locking upAt bedtime; but the strangeness soon wears off.\"He fetched a dingy lantern from behindA door. \"There's that we didn't lose! And these!\"—Some matches he unpocketed. \"For food—The meals we've had no one can take from us.I wish that everything on earth were justAs certain as the meals we've had. I wishThe meals we haven't had were, anyway.What have you you know where to lay your hands on?\"\"The bread we bought in passing at the store.There's butter somewhere, too.\"\"Let's rend the bread.I'll light the fire for company for you;You'll not have any other companyTill Ed begins to get out on a SundayTo look us over and give us his ideaOf what wants pruning, shingling, breaking up.He'll know what he would do if he were we,And all at once. He'll plan for us and planTo help us, but he'll take it out in planning.Well, you can set the table with the loaf.Let's see you find your loaf. I'll light the fire.I like chairs occupying other chairsNot offering a lady—\"\"There again, Joe!You're tired.\"\"I'm drunk-nonsensical tired out;Don't mind a word I say. It's a day's workTo empty one house of all household goodsAnd fill another with 'em fifteen miles away,Although you do no more than dump them down.\"\"Dumped down in paradise we are and happy.\"\"It's all so much what I have always wanted,I can't believe it's what you wanted, too.\"\"Shouldn't you like to know?\"\"I'd like to knowIf it is what you wanted, then how muchYou wanted it for me.\"\"A troubled conscience!You don't want me to tell if I don't know.\"\"I don't want to find out what can't be known.But who first said the word to come?\"\"My dear,It's who first thought the thought. You're searching, Joe,For things that don't exist; I mean beginnings.Ends and beginnings—there are no such things.There are only middles.\"\"What is this?\"\"This life?Our sitting here by lantern-light togetherAmid the wreckage of a former home?You won't deny the lantern isn't new.The stove is not, and you are not to me,Nor I to you.\"\"Perhaps you never were?\"\"It would take me forever to reciteAll that's not new in where we find ourselves.New is a word for fools in towns who thinkStyle upon style in dress and thought at lastMust get somewhere. I've heard you say as much.No, this is no beginning.\"\"Then an end?\"\"End is a gloomy word.\"\"Is it too lateTo drag you out for just a good-night callOn the old peach trees on the knoll to gropeBy starlight in the grass for a last peachThe neighbors may not have taken as their rightWhen the house wasn't lived in? I've been looking:I doubt if they have left us many grapes.Before we set ourselves to right the house,The first thing in the morning, out we goTo go the round of apple, cherry, peach,Pine, alder, pasture, mowing, well, and brook.All of a farm it is.\"\"I know this much:I'm going to put you in your bed, if firstI have to make you build it. Come, the light.\"When there was no more lantern in the kitchen,The fire got out through crannies in the stoveAnd danced in yellow wrigglers on the ceiling,As much at home as if they'd always danced there."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""33"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 33,
        ""poem.id"": 33,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dust in the Eyes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyesWill keep my talk from getting overwise,I'm not the one for putting off the proof.Let it be overwhelming, off a roofAnd round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,And blind me to a standstill if it must."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""34"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 34,
        ""poem.id"": 34,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Passing Glimpse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""To Ridgely TorrenceOn Last Looking into His 'Hesperides'I often see flowers from a passing carThat are gone before I can tell what they are.I want to get out of the train and go backTo see what they were beside the track.I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt- Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth- Not lupine living on sand and drouth.Was something brushed across my mindThat no one on earth will ever find?Heaven gives it glimpses only to thoseNot in position to look too close."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""35"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 35,
        ""poem.id"": 35,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Most Of It"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""He thought he kept the universe alone;For all the voice in answer he could wakeWas but the mocking echo of his ownFrom some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.Some morning from the boulder-broken beachHe would cry out on life, that what it wantsIs not its own love back in copy speech,But counter-love, original response.And nothing ever came of what he criedUnless it was the embodiment that crashedIn the cliff's talus on the other side,And then in the far distant water splashed,But after a time allowed for it to swim,Instead of proving human when it nearedAnd someone else additional to him,As a great buck it powerfully appeared,Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,And landed pouring like a waterfall,And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,And forced the underbrush—and that was all."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""36"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 36,
        ""poem.id"": 36,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Hillside Thaw"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""To think to know the country and now knowThe hillside on the day the sun lets goTen million silver lizards out of snow!As often as I've seen it done beforeI can't pretend to tell the way it's done.It looks as if some magic of the sunLifted the rug that bred them on the floorAnd the light breaking on them made them run.But if I though to stop the wet stampede,And caught one silver lizard by the tail,And put my foot on one without avail,And threw myself wet-elbowed and wet-kneedIn front of twenty others' wriggling speed,- In the confusion of them all aglitter,And birds that joined in the excited funBy doubling and redoubling song and twitter,I have no doubt I'd end by holding none.It takes the moon for this. The sun's a wizardBy all I tell; but so's the moon a witch.From the high west she makes a gentle castAnd suddenly, without a jerk or twitch,She has her speel on every single lizard.I fancied when I looked at six o'clockThe swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast.The moon was waiting for her chill effect.I looked at nine: the swarm was turned to rockIn every lifelike posture of the swarm,Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect.Across each other and side by side they lay.The spell that so could hold them as they wereWas wrought through trees without a breath of stormTo make a leaf, if there had been one, stir.One lizard at the end of every ray.The thought of my attempting such a stray!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""37"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 37,
        ""poem.id"": 37,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Place For A Third"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Nothing to say to all those marriages! She had made three herself to three of his. The score was even for them, three to three. But come to die she found she cared so much: She thought of children in a burial row; Three children in a burial row were sad. One man's three women in a burial row Somehow made her impatient with the man. And so she said to Laban, \"You have done A good deal right; don't do the last thing wrong. Don't make me lie with those two other women.\" Laban said, No, he would not make her lie With anyone but that she had a mind to, If that was how she felt, of course, he said. She went her way. But Laban having caught This glimpse of lingering person in Eliza, And anxious to make all he could of it With something he remembered in himself, Tried to think how he could exceed his promise, And give good measure to the dead, though thankless. If that was how she felt, he kept repeating. His first thought under pressure was a grave In a new boughten grave plot by herself, Under he didn't care how great a stone: He'd sell a yoke of steers to pay for it. And weren't there special cemetery flowers, That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest; The flowers will go on with grief awhile, And no one seem neglecting or neglected? A prudent grief will not despise such aids. He thought of evergreen and everlasting. And then he had a thought worth many of these. Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy Who married her for playmate more than helpmate, And sometimes laughed at what it was between them. How would she like to sleep her last with him? Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name? He found the grave a town or two away, The headstone cut with John, Beloved Husband, Beside it room reserved; the say a sister's; A never-married sister's of that husband, Whether Eliza would be welcome there. The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister. So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothing Of where Eliza wanted not to lie, And who had thought to lay her with her first love, Begged simply for the grave. The sister's face Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility. She wanted to do right. She'd have to think. Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care; And she was old and poor—but she cared, too. They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him, Then turned him out to go on other errands She said he might attend to in the village, While she made up her mind how much she cared— And how much Laban cared—and why he cared, (She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.) She'd looked Eliza up her second time, A widow at her second husband's grave, And offered her a home to rest awhile Before she went the poor man's widow's way, Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock. She and Eliza had been friends through all. Who was she to judge marriage in a world Whose Bible's so confused up in marriage counsel? The sister had not come across this Laban; A decent product of life's ironing-out; She must not keep him waiting. Time would press Between the death day and the funeral day. So when she saw him coming in the street She hurried her decision to be ready To meet him with his answer at the door. Laban had known about what it would be From the way she had set her poor old mouth, To do, as she had put it, what was right. She gave it through the screen door closed between them: \"No, not with John. There wouldn't be no sense. Eliza's had too many other men.\" Laban was forced to fall back on his plan To buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in: Which gives him for himself a choice of lots When his time comes to die and settle down."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""38"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 38,
        ""poem.id"": 38,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Paul's Wife"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""To drive Paul out of any lumber campAll that was needed was to say to him,'How is the wife, Paul?'- and he'd disappear.Some said it was because be bad no wife,And hated to be twitted on the subject;Others because he'd come within a dayOr so of having one, and then been Jilted;Others because he'd had one once, a good one,Who'd run away with someone else and left him;And others still because he had one nowHe only had to be reminded of- He was all duty to her in a minute:He had to run right off to look her up,As if to say, 'That's so, how is my wife?I hope she isn't getting into mischief.'No one was anxious to get rid of Paul.He'd been the hero of the mountain campsEver since, just to show them, he bad slippedThe bark of a whole tamarack off wholeAs clean as boys do off a willow twigTo make a willow whistle on a SundayApril by subsiding meadow brooks.They seemed to ask him just to see him go,'How is the wife, Paul?' and he always went.He never stopped to murder anyoneWho asked the question. He just disappeared- Nobody knew in what direction,Although it wasn't usually longBefore they beard of him in some new camp,The same Paul at the same old feats of logging.The question everywhere was why should PaulObject to being asked a civil question- A man you could say almost anything toShort of a fighting word. You have the answers.And there was one more not so fair to Paul:That Paul had married a wife not his equal.Paul was ashamed of her. To match a heroShe would have had to be a heroine;Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw.But if the story Murphy told was true,She wasn't anything to be ashamed of.You know Paul could do wonders. Everyone'sHeard how he thrashed the horses on a loadThat wouldn't budge, until they simply stretchedTheir rawhide harness from the load to camp.Paul told the boss the load would be all right,'The sun will bring your load in'- and it did- By shrinking the rawhide to natural length.That's what is called a stretcher. But I guessThe one about his jumping so's to landWith both his feet at once against the ceiling,And then land safely right side up again,Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact.Well, this is such a yarn. Paul sawed his wifeOut of a white-pine log. Murphy was thereAnd, as you might say, saw the lady born.Paul worked at anything in lumbering.He'd been bard at it taking boards awayFor- I forget- the last ambitious sawyerTo want to find out if he couldn't pileThe lumber on Paul till Paul begged for mercy.They'd sliced the first slab off a big butt log,And the sawyer had slammed the carriage backTo slam end-on again against the saw teeth.To judge them by the way they caught themselvesWhen they saw what had happened to the log,They must have had a guilty expectationSomething was going to go with their slambanging.Something bad left a broad black streak of greaseOn the new wood the whole length of the logExcept, perhaps, a foot at either end.But when Paul put his finger in the grease,It wasn't grease at all, but a long slot.The log was hollow. They were sawing pine.'First time I ever saw a hollow pine.That comes of having Paul around the place.Take it to bell for me,' the sawyer said.Everyone had to have a look at itAnd tell Paul what he ought to do about it.(They treated it as his.) 'You take a jackknife,And spread the opening, and you've got a dugoutAll dug to go a-fishing in.' To PaulThe hollow looked too sound and clean and emptyEver to have housed birds or beasts or bees.There was no entrance for them to get in by.It looked to him like some new kind of hollowHe thought he'd better take his jackknife to.So after work that evening be came backAnd let enough light into it by cuttingTo see if it was empty. He made out in thereA slender length of pith, or was it pith?It might have been the skin a snake had castAnd left stood up on end inside the treeThe hundred years the tree must have been growing.More cutting and he bad this in both hands,And looking from it to the pond nearby,Paul wondered how it would respond to water.Not a breeze stirred, but just the breath of airHe made in walking slowly to the beachBlew it once off his hands and almost broke it.He laid it at the edge, where it could drink.At the first drink it rustled and grew limp.At the next drink it grew invisible.Paul dragged the shallows for it with his fingers,And thought it must have melted. It was gone.And then beyond the open water, dim with midges,Where the log drive lay pressed against the boom,It slowly rose a person, rose a girl,Her wet hair heavy on her like a helmet,Who, leaning on a log, looked back at Paul.And that made Paul in turn look backTo see if it was anyone behind himThat she was looking at instead of him.(Murphy had been there watching all the time,But from a shed where neither of them could see him.)There was a moment of suspense in birthWhen the girl seemed too waterlogged to live,Before she caught her first breath with a gaspAnd laughed. Then she climbed slowly to her feet,And walked off, talking to herself or Paul,Across the logs like backs of alligators,Paul taking after her around the pond.Next evening Murphy and some other fellowsGot drunk, and tracked the pair up Catamount,From the bare top of which there is a viewTO other hills across a kettle valley.And there, well after dark, let Murphy tell it,They saw Paul and his creature keeping house.It was the only glimpse that anyoneHas had of Paul and her since Murphy saw themFalling in love across the twilight millpond.More than a mile across the wildernessThey sat together halfway up a cliffIn a small niche let into it, the girlBrightly, as if a star played on the place,Paul darkly, like her shadow. All the lightWas from the girl herself, though, not from a star,As was apparent from what happened next.All those great ruffians put their throats together,And let out a loud yell, and threw a bottle,As a brute tribute of respect to beauty.Of course the bottle fell short by a mile,But the shout reached the girl and put her light out.She went out like a firefly, and that was all.So there were witnesses that Paul was marriedAnd not to anyone to be ashamed ofEveryone had been wrong in judging Paul.Murphy told me Paul put on all those airsAbout his wife to keep her to himself.Paul was what's called a terrible possessor.Owning a wife with him meant owning her.She wasn't anybody else's business,Either to praise her or much as name her,And he'd thank people not to think of her.Murphy's idea was that a man like PaulWouldn't be spoken to about a wifeIn any way the world knew how to speak."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""39"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 39,
        ""poem.id"": 39,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Door In The Dark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/27/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In going from room to room in the dark,I reached out blindly to save my face,But neglected, however lightly, to laceMy fingers and close my arms in an arc.A slim door got in past my guard,And hit me a blow in the head so hardI had my native simile jarred.So people and things don't pair any moreWith what they used to pair with before."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""40"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 40,
        ""poem.id"": 40,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maple"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/24/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Her teacher's certainty it must be MabelMade Maple first take notice of her name.She asked her father and he told her, 'Maple—Maple is right.''But teacher told the schoolThere's no such name.''Teachers don't know as muchAs fathers about children, you tell teacher.You tell her that it's M-A-P-L-E.You ask her if she knows a maple tree.Well, you were named after a maple tree.Your mother named you. You and she just sawEach other in passing in the room upstairs,One coming this way into life, and oneGoing the other out of life—you know?So you can't have much recollection of her.She had been having a long look at you.She put her finger in your cheek so hardIt must have made your dimple there, and said,'Maple.' I said it too: 'Yes, for her name.'She nodded. So we're sure there's no mistake.I don't know what she wanted it to mean,But it seems like some word she left to bid youBe a good girl—be like a maple tree.How like a maple tree's for us to guess.Or for a little girl to guess sometime.Not now—at least I shouldn't try too hard now.By and by I will tell you all I knowAbout the different trees, and something, too,About your mother that perhaps may help.'Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.Luckily all she wanted of her name thenWas to rebuke her teacher with it next day,And give the teacher a scare as from her father.Anything further had been wasted on her,Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.She would forget it. She all but forgot it.What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,And came so near death in the dark of years,That when it woke and came to life againThe flower was different from the parent seed.It carne back vaguely at the glass one day,As she stood saying her name over aloud,Striking it gently across her lowered eyesTo make it go well with the way she looked.What was it about her name? Its strangeness layIn having too much meaning. Other names,As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,Signified nothing. Rose could have a meaning,But hadn't as it went. (She knew a Rose.)This difference from other names it wasMade people notice it—and notice her.(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.)Her problem was to find out what it askedIn dress or manner of the girl who bore it.If she could form some notion of her mother—What she bad thought was lovely, and what good.This was her mother's childhood home;The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the end it presented to the road.(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.)Her mother's bedroom was her father's still,Where she could watch her mother's picture fading.Once she found for a bookmark in the BibleA maple leaf she thought must have been laidIn wait for her there. She read every wordOf the two pages it was pressed between,As if it was her mother speaking to her.But forgot to put the leaf back in closingAnd lost the place never to read again.She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.So she looked for herself, as everyoneLooks for himself, more or less outwardly.And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,May still have been what led her on to read,And think a little, and get some city schooling.She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand mayHave had to do with it- she sometimes wondered.So, till she found herself in a strange placeFor the name Maple to have brought her to,Taking dictation on a paper padAnd, in the pauses when she raised her eyes,Watching out of a nineteenth story windowAn airship laboring with unshiplike motionAnd a vague all-disturbing roar above the riverBeyond the highest city built with hands.Someone was saying in such natural tonesShe almost wrote the words down on her knee,'Do you know you remind me of a tree- A maple tree?''Because my name is Maple?''Isn't it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel.''No doubt you've heard the office call me Mabel.I have to let them call me what they like.'They were both stirred that he should have divinedWithout the name her personal mystery.It made it seem as if there must be somethingShe must have missed herself. So they were married,And took the fancy home with them to live by.They went on pilgrimage once to her father's(The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the side it presented to the road)To see if there was not some special treeShe might have overlooked. They could find none,Not so much as a single tree for shade,Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.She told him of the bookmark maple leafIn the big Bible, and all she rememberedof the place marked with it—'Wave offering,Something about wave offering, it said.''You've never asked your father outright, have you?''I have, and been Put off sometime, I think.'(This was her faded memory of the wayOnce long ago her father had put himself off.)'Because no telling but it may have beenSomething between your father and your motherNot meant for us at all.''Not meant for me?Where would the fairness be in giving meA name to carry for life and never knowThe secret of?''And then it may have beenSomething a father couldn't tell a daughterAs well as could a mother. And againIt may have been their one lapse into fancy'Twould be too bad to make him sorry forBy bringing it up to him when be was too old.Your father feels us round him with our questing,And holds us off unnecessarily,As if he didn't know what little thingMight lead us on to a discovery.It was as personal as be could beAbout the way he saw it was with youTo say your mother, bad she lived, would beAs far again as from being born to bearing.''Just one look more with what you say in mind,And I give up'; which last look came to nothing.But though they now gave up the search forever,They clung to what one had seen in the otherBy inspiration. It proved there was something.They kept their thoughts away from when the maplesStood uniform in buckets, and the steamOf sap and snow rolled off the sugarhouse.When they made her related to the maples,It was the tree the autumn fire ran throughAnd swept of leathern leaves, but left the barkUnscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.They always took their holidays in autumn.Once they came on a maple in a glade,Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,And every leaf of foliage she'd wornLaid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.But its age kept them from considering this one.Twenty-five years ago at Maple's namingIt hardly could have been a two-leaved seedlingThe next cow might have licked up out at pasture.Could it have been another maple like it?They hovered for a moment near discovery,Figurative enough to see the symbol,But lacking faith in anything to meanThe same at different times to different people.Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept themFrom thinking it could be a thing so bridal.And anyway it came too late for Maple.She used her hands to cover up her eyes.'We would not see the secret if we could now:We are not looking for it any more.'Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,Made a girl's marriage, and ruled in her life.No matter that the meaning was not clear.A name with meaning could bring up a child,Taking the child out of the parents' hands.Better a meaningless name, I should say,As leaving more to nature and happy chance.Name children some names and see what you do."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14386"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14386,
        ""poem.id"": 14386,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Word of a Blue Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""As told to a childAs I went out a CrowIn a low voice said, 'Oh,I was looking for you.How do you do?I just came to tell youTo tell Lesley (will you?)That her little BluebirdWanted me to bring wordThat the north wind last nightThat made the stars brightAnd made ice on the troughAlmost made him coughHis tail feathers off.He just had to fly!But he sent her Good-by,And said to be good,And wear her red hood,And look for the skunk tracksIn the snow with an ax-And do everything!And perhaps in the springHe would come back and sing.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14387"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14387,
        ""poem.id"": 14387,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Onset"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""ALWAYS the same, when on a fated nightAt last the gathered snow lets down as whiteAs may be in dark woods, and with a songIt shall not make again all winter longOf hissing on the yet uncovered ground,I almost stumble looking up and round,As one who overtaken by the endGives up his errand, and lets death descendUpon him where he is, with nothing doneTo evil, no important triumph won,More than if life had never been begun. Yet all the precedent is on my side:I know that winter death has never triedThe earth but it has failed: the snow may heapIn long storms an undrifted four feet deepAs measured against maple, birch and oak,It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;And I shall see the snow all go down hillIn water of a slender April rillThat flashes tail through last year's withered brakeAnd dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.Nothing will be left white but here a birch,And there a clump of houses with a church."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14388"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14388,
        ""poem.id"": 14388,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lodged"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/21/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14389"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14389,
        ""poem.id"": 14389,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Star In A Stoneboat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/15/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""For Lincoln MacVeaghNever tell me that not one star of allThat slip from heaven at night and softly fallHas been picked up with stones to build a wall.Some laborer found one faded and stone-cold,And saving that its weight suggested goldAnd tugged it from his first too certain hold,He noticed nothing in it to remark.He was not used to handling stars thrown darkAnd lifeless from an interrupted arc.He did not recognize in that smooth coalThe one thing palpable besides the soulTo penetrate the air in which we roll.He did not see how like a flying thingIt brooded ant eggs, and bad one large wing,One not so large for flying in a ring,And a long Bird of Paradise's tail(Though these when not in use to fly and trailIt drew back in its body like a snail):Nor know that be might move it from the spot—The harm was done: from having been star-shotThe very nature of the soil was hotAnd burning to yield flowers instead of grain,Flowers fanned and not put out by all the rainPoured on them by his prayers prayed in vain.He moved it roughly with an iron bar,He loaded an old stoneboat with the starAnd not, as you might think, a flying car,Such as even poets would admit perforceMore practical than Pegasus the horseIf it could put a star back in its course.He dragged it through the plowed ground at a paceBut faintly reminiscent of the raceOf jostling rock in interstellar space.It went for building stone, and I, as thoughCommanded in a dream, forever goTo right the wrong that this should have been so.Yet ask where else it could have gone as well,I do not know—I cannot stop to tell:He might have left it lying where it fell.From following walls I never lift my eye,Except at night to places in the skyWhere showers of charted meteors let fly.Some may know what they seek in school and church,And why they seek it there; for what I searchI must go measuring stone walls, perch on perch;Sure that though not a star of death and birth,So not to be compared, perhaps, in worthTo such resorts of life as Mars and Earth—Though not, I say, a star of death and sin,It yet has poles, and only needs a spinTo show its worldly nature and beginTo chafe and shuffle in my calloused palmAnd run off in strange tangents with my arm,As fish do with the line in first alarm.Such as it is, it promises the prizeOf the one world complete in any sizeThat I am like to compass, fool or wise."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14391"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14391,
        ""poem.id"": 14391,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Acceptance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloudAnd goes down burning into the gulf below,No voice in nature is heard to cry aloudAt what has happened. Birds, at least must knowIt is the change to darkness in the sky.Murmuring something quiet in her breast,One bird begins to close a faded eye;Or overtaken too far from his nest,Hurrying low above the grove, some waifSwoops just in time to his remembered tree.At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!Now let the night be dark for all of me.Let the night bee too dark for me to seeInto the future. Let what will be, be.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14392"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14392,
        ""poem.id"": 14392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Runaway"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,We stopped by a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his breast. He dipped his headAnd snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.'I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter-broken. It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,It's only weather'. He'd think she didn't know !Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,Ought to be told to come and take him in.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14393"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14393,
        ""poem.id"": 14393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Freedom Of The Moon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I've tried the new moon tilted in the airAbove a hazy tree-and-farmhouse clusterAs you might try a jewel in your hair.I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,Alone, or in one ornament combiningWith one first-water start almost shining.I put it shining anywhere I please.By walking slowly on some evening later,I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,And brought it over glossy water, greater,And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,The color run, all sorts of wonder follow."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14394"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14394,
        ""poem.id"": 14394,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Blue-Butterfly Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/12/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurryThere is more unmixed color on the wingThan flowers will show for days unless they hurry.But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:And now from having ridden out desireThey lie closed over in the wind and clingWhere wheels have freshly sliced the April mire."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14395"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14395,
        ""poem.id"": 14395,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:25:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Peck of Gold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/14/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Dust always blowing about the town,Except when sea-fog laid it down,And I was one of the children toldSome of the blowing dust was gold.All the dust the wind blew highAppeared like god in the sunset sky,But I was one of the children toldSome of the dust was really gold.Such was life in the Golden Gate:Gold dusted all we drank and ate,And I was one of the children told,'We all must eat our peck of gold.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14396"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14396,
        ""poem.id"": 14396,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Master Speed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/14/2013"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14397"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14397,
        ""poem.id"": 14397,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Peaceful Shepherd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/4/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""If heaven were to do again,And on the pasture bars,I leaned to line the figures inBetween the dotted stars,I should be tempted to forget,I fear, the Crown of Rule,The Scales of Trade, the Cross of Faith,As hardly worth renewal.For these have governed in our lives,And see how men have warred.The Cross, the Crown, the Scales may allAs well have been the Sword."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14398"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14398,
        ""poem.id"": 14398,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Encounter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14399"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14399,
        ""poem.id"": 14399,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Equal Sacrifice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14400"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14400,
        ""poem.id"": 14400,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Girl's Garden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A neighbor of mine in the village Likes to tell how one springWhen she was a girl on the farm, she did A childlike thing.One day she asked her fatherTo give her a garden plotTo plant and tend and reap herself, And he said, 'Why not?'In casting about for a corner He thought of an idle bitOf walled-off ground where a shop had stood, And he said, 'Just it.'And he said, 'That ought to make you An ideal one-girl farm,And give you a chance to put some strength On your slim-jim arm.'It was not enough of a garden Her father said, to plow;So she had to work it all by hand, But she don't mind now.She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow Along a stretch of road;But she always ran away and left Her not-nice load,And hid from anyone passing. And then she begged the seed.She says she thinks she planted one Of all things but weed.A hill each of potatoes, Radishes, lettuce, peas,Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn, And even fruit trees.And yes, she has long mistrustedThat a cider-appleIn bearing there today is hers,Or at least may be.Her crop was a miscellany When all was said and done,A little bit of everything, A great deal of none.Now when she sees in the village How village things go,Just when it seems to come in right, She says, 'I know!'It's as when I was a farmer...' Oh never by way of advice!And she never sins by telling the tale To the same person twice."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14401"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14401,
        ""poem.id"": 14401,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Code—heroics"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14402"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14402,
        ""poem.id"": 14402,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In A Vale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14403"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14403,
        ""poem.id"": 14403,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Axe-Helve"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14404"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14404,
        ""poem.id"": 14404,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bonfire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14405"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14405,
        ""poem.id"": 14405,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Iota Subscript"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14406"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14406,
        ""poem.id"": 14406,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Black Cottage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14407"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14407,
        ""poem.id"": 14407,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hill Wife"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14408"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14408,
        ""poem.id"": 14408,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14409"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14409,
        ""poem.id"": 14409,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:26:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Fifty Said.."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14410"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14410,
        ""poem.id"": 14410,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Oft-Repeated Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14411"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14411,
        ""poem.id"": 14411,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Waiting -- Afield At Dusk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14412"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14412,
        ""poem.id"": 14412,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Iris By Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14413"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14413,
        ""poem.id"": 14413,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Objection To Being Stepped On"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14414"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14414,
        ""poem.id"": 14414,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Impulse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14415"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14415,
        ""poem.id"": 14415,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Plowmen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14416"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14416,
        ""poem.id"": 14416,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unharvested"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/8/2011"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14417"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14417,
        ""poem.id"": 14417,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Demiurge's Laugh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14418"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14418,
        ""poem.id"": 14418,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mountain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14419"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14419,
        ""poem.id"": 14419,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Need Of Being Versed In Country Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14420"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14420,
        ""poem.id"": 14420,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Range-Finding"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14421"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14421,
        ""poem.id"": 14421,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Departmental"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14422"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14422,
        ""poem.id"": 14422,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pan With Us"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14423"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14423,
        ""poem.id"": 14423,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:18:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Step Backward Taken"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""14424"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14424,
        ""poem.id"": 14424,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:27:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Putting In The Seed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14425"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14425,
        ""poem.id"": 14425,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Line-Gang"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14426"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14426,
        ""poem.id"": 14426,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gum-Gatherer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14427"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14427,
        ""poem.id"": 14427,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spoils Of The Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14428"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14428,
        ""poem.id"": 14428,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hannibal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14429"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14429,
        ""poem.id"": 14429,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Exposed Nest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14430"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14430,
        ""poem.id"": 14430,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In White"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14431"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14431,
        ""poem.id"": 14431,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not To Keep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14432"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14432,
        ""poem.id"": 14432,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Vanishing Red"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14433"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14433,
        ""poem.id"": 14433,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Meeting And Passing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14434"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14434,
        ""poem.id"": 14434,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Quandary"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/24/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14435"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14435,
        ""poem.id"": 14435,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Were Welcome To Their Belief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14436"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14436,
        ""poem.id"": 14436,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hyla Brook"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14437"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14437,
        ""poem.id"": 14437,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:28:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Neglect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14438"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14438,
        ""poem.id"": 14438,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In A Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14439"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14439,
        ""poem.id"": 14439,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Once, Then, Something"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14440"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14440,
        ""poem.id"": 14440,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Vantage Point"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14441"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14441,
        ""poem.id"": 14441,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To E.T."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14442"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14442,
        ""poem.id"": 14442,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Star Splitter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14443"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14443,
        ""poem.id"": 14443,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Oven Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14444"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14444,
        ""poem.id"": 14444,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In A Disused Graveyard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14445"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14445,
        ""poem.id"": 14445,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Hardwood Groves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14446"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14446,
        ""poem.id"": 14446,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cow In Apple-Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14447"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14447,
        ""poem.id"": 14447,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Christmas Trees"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14448"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14448,
        ""poem.id"": 14448,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Death Of The Hired Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14449"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14449,
        ""poem.id"": 14449,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14450"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14450,
        ""poem.id"": 14450,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Trial By Existence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14451"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14451,
        ""poem.id"": 14451,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:29:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Flower Boat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14452"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14452,
        ""poem.id"": 14452,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rose Pogonias"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14453"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14453,
        ""poem.id"": 14453,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Reluctance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14454"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14454,
        ""poem.id"": 14454,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Earthward"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14455"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14455,
        ""poem.id"": 14455,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Storm Fear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14456"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14456,
        ""poem.id"": 14456,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Canis Major"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14457"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14457,
        ""poem.id"": 14457,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wind And Window Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14458"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14458,
        ""poem.id"": 14458,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Span Of Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14459"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14459,
        ""poem.id"": 14459,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lockless Door"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14460"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14460,
        ""poem.id"": 14460,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Armful"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14461"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14461,
        ""poem.id"": 14461,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love And A Question"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14462"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14462,
        ""poem.id"": 14462,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Thawing Wind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14463"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14463,
        ""poem.id"": 14463,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:30:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Provide, Provide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14464"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14464,
        ""poem.id"": 14464,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wood-Pile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14465"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14465,
        ""poem.id"": 14465,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Look At Two"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountain side With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness; When they were halted by a tumbled wall With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this, Spending what onward impulse they still had In One last look the way they must not go, On up the failing path, where, if a stone Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself; No footstep moved it. 'This is all,' they sighed, Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more. A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them Across the wall, as near the wall as they. She saw them in their field, they her in hers. The difficulty of seeing what stood still, Like some up-ended boulder split in two, Was in her clouded eyes; they saw no fear there. She seemed to think that two thus they were safe. Then, as if they were something that, though strange, She could not trouble her mind with too long, She sighed and passed unscared along the wall. 'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?' But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait. A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them Across the wall as near the wall as they. This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril, Not the same doe come back into her place. He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head, As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion? Or give some sign of life? Because you can't. I doubt if you're as living as you look.\" Thus till he had them almost feeling dared To stretch a proffering hand -- and a spell-breaking. Then he too passed unscared along the wall. Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from. 'This must be all.' It was all. Still they stood, A great wave from it going over them, As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour Had made them certain earth returned their love."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14466"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14466,
        ""poem.id"": 14466,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Blueberries"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day: Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come! And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen! ' 'I don't know what part of the pasture you mean.' 'You know where they cut off the woods—let me see— It was two years ago—or no! —can it be No longer than that? —and the following fall The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.' 'Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow. That's always the way with the blueberries, though: There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they're up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick.' 'It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot. And after all really they're ebony skinned: The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.' 'Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think? ' 'He may and not care and so leave the chewink To gather them for him—you know what he is. He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his An excuse for keeping us other folk out.' 'I wonder you didn't see Loren about.' 'The best of it was that I did. Do you know, I was just getting through what the field had to show And over the wall and into the road, When who should come by, with a democrat-load Of all the young chattering Lorens alive, But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.' 'He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown? ' 'He just kept nodding his head up and down. You know how politely he always goes by. But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye— Which being expressed, might be this in effect: 'I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'' 'He's a thriftier person than some I could name.' 'He seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.' 'Who cares what they say? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.' 'I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.' 'I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name.' 'I've told you how once not long after we came, I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth By going to him of all people on earth To ask if he knew any fruit to be had For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad. There had been some berries—but those were all gone. He didn't say where they had been. He went on: 'I'm sure—I'm sure'—as polite as could be. He spoke to his wife in the door, 'Let me see, Mame, we don't know any good berrying place? ' It was all he could do to keep a straight face. 'If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him, He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim, We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year. We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear, And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet. It's so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries: we took one look round, Then sank out of sight like trolls underground, And saw nothing more of each other, or heard, Unless when you said I was keeping a bird Away from its nest, and I said it was you. 'Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew Around and around us. And then for a while We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile, And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out, For when you made answer, your voice was as low As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.' 'We sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy— Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy. They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night. They won't be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain. You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14467"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14467,
        ""poem.id"": 14467,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14468"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14468,
        ""poem.id"": 14468,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leaves Compared With Flowers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14469"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14469,
        ""poem.id"": 14469,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Into My Own"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14470"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14470,
        ""poem.id"": 14470,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My November Guest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14471"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14471,
        ""poem.id"": 14471,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Going For Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14472"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14472,
        ""poem.id"": 14472,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Good-Bye, And Keep Cold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14473"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14473,
        ""poem.id"": 14473,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragmentary Blue"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14474"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14474,
        ""poem.id"": 14474,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mowing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14475"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14475,
        ""poem.id"": 14475,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Butterfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14476"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14476,
        ""poem.id"": 14476,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sound Of Trees"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14477"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14477,
        ""poem.id"": 14477,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:31:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""But Outer Space"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14478"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14478,
        ""poem.id"": 14478,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Telephone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14479"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14479,
        ""poem.id"": 14479,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spring Pools"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14480"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14480,
        ""poem.id"": 14480,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Home Burial"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""He saw her from the bottom of the stairsBefore she saw him. She was starting down,Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.She took a doubtful step and then undid itTo raise herself and look again. He spokeAdvancing toward her: \"What is it you seeFrom up there always? -- for I want to know.\"She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,And her face changed from terrified to dull.He said to gain time: \"What is it you see?\"Mounting until she cowered under him.\"I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear.\"She, in her place, refused him any help,With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,Blind creature; and a while he didn't see.But at last he murmured, \"Oh\" and again, \"Oh.\"\"What is it -- what?\" she said. \"Just that I see.\"\"You don't,\" she challenged. \"Tell me what it is.\"\"The wonder is I didn't see at once.I never noticed it from here before.I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason.The little graveyard where my people are!So small the window frames the whole of it.Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?There are three stones of slate and one of marble,Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlightOn the sidehill. We haven't to mind those.But I understand: it is not the stones,But the child's mound ----\" \"Don't, don't, don't, don't,\" she cried.She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his armThat rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;And turned on him with such a daunting look,He said twice over before he knew himself:\"Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?\"\"Not you! -- Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!I must get out of here. I must get air.--I don't know rightly whether any man can.\"\"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs.\"He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.\"There's something I should like to ask you, dear.\"\"You don't know how to ask it.\" \"Help me, then.\"Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.\"My words are nearly always an offense.I don't know how to speak of anythingSo as to please you. But I might be taught,I should suppose. I can't say I see how.A man must partly give up being a manWith womenfolk. We could have some arrangementBy which I'd bind myself to keep hands offAnything special you're a-mind to name.Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.Two that don't love can't live together without them.But two that do can't live together with them.\"She moved the latch a little. \"Don't -- don't go.Don't carry it to someone else this time.Tell me about it if it's something human.Let me into your grief. I'm not so muchUnlike other folks as your standing thereApart would make me out. Give me my chance.I do think, though, you overdo it a little.What was it brought you up to think it the thingTo take your mother-loss of a first childSo inconsolably -- in the face of love.You'd think his memory might be satisfied ----\"\"There you go sneering now!\" \"I'm not, I'm not!You make me angry. I'll come down to you.God, what a woman! And it's come to this,A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.\"\"You can't because you don't know how to speak.If you had any feelings, you that dugWith your own hand -- how could you? -- his little grave;I saw you from that very window there,Making the gravel leap and leap in air,Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightlyAnd roll back down the mound beside the hole.I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.And I crept down the stairs and up the stairsTo look again, and still your spade kept lifting.Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voiceOut in the kitchen, and I don't know why,But I went near to see with my own eyes.You could sit there with the stains on your shoesOf the fresh earth from your own baby's graveAnd talk about your everyday concerns.You had stood the spade up against the wallOutside there in the entry, for I saw it.\"\"I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.\"\"I can repeat the very words you were saying:'Three foggy mornings and one rainy dayWill rot the best birch fence a man can build.'Think of it, talk like that at such a time!What had how long it takes a birch to rotTo do with what was in the darkened parlour?You couldn't care! The nearest friends can goWith anyone to death, comes so far shortThey might as well not try to go at all.No, from the time when one is sick to death,One is alone, and he dies more alone.Friends make pretense of following to the grave,But before one is in it, their minds are turnedAnd making the best of their way back to lifeAnd living people, and things they understand.But the world's evil. I won't have grief soIf I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!\"\"There, you have said it all and you feel better.You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up?Amyl There's someone coming down the road!\"\"You -- oh, you think the talk is all. I must go --Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you ----\"\"If -- you -- do!\" She was opening the door wider.\"Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14481"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14481,
        ""poem.id"": 14481,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now Close The Windows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14482"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14482,
        ""poem.id"": 14482,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""God's Garden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14483"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14483,
        ""poem.id"": 14483,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tuft Of Flowers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, 'As all must be,' I said within my heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.' But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, Seeking with memories grown dim over night Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see, And then on tremulous wing came back to me. I thought of questions that have no reply, And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. I left my place to know them by their name, Finding them butterfly-weed when I came. The mower in the dew had loved them thus, By leaving them to flourish, not for us, Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him, But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. The butterfly and I had lit upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone; But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 'Men work together,' I told him from the heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14484"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14484,
        ""poem.id"": 14484,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bond And Free"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14485"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14485,
        ""poem.id"": 14485,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Revelation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14486"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14486,
        ""poem.id"": 14486,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Aim Was Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14487"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14487,
        ""poem.id"": 14487,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Soldier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14488"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14488,
        ""poem.id"": 14488,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Carpe Diem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14489"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14489,
        ""poem.id"": 14489,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Flower-Gathering"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14490"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14490,
        ""poem.id"": 14490,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:32:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gift Outright"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14491"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14491,
        ""poem.id"": 14491,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pasture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14492"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14492,
        ""poem.id"": 14492,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Evening In A Sugar Orchard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14493"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14493,
        ""poem.id"": 14493,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Neither Out Far Nor In Deep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14494"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14494,
        ""poem.id"": 14494,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Tramps In Mud Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Out of the mud two strangers cameAnd caught me splitting wood in the yard,And one of them put me off my aimBy hailing cheerily \"Hit them hard!\"I knew pretty well why he had dropped behindAnd let the other go on a way.I knew pretty well what he had in mind:He wanted to take my job for pay.Good blocks of oak it was I split,As large around as the chopping block;And every piece I squarely hitFell splinterless as a cloven rock.The blows that a life of self-controlSpares to strike for the common good,That day, giving a loose my soul,I spent on the unimportant wood.The sun was warm but the wind was chill.You know how it is with an April dayWhen the sun is out and the wind is still,You're one month on in the middle of May.But if you so much as dare to speak,A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,A wind comes off a frozen peak,And you're two months back in the middle of March.A bluebird comes tenderly up to alightAnd turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,His song so pitched as not to exciteA single flower as yet to bloom.It is snowing a flake; and he half knewWinter was only playing possum.Except in color he isn't blue,But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.The water for which we may have to lookIn summertime with a witching wand,In every wheelrut's now a brook,In every print of a hoof a pond.Be glad of water, but don't forgetThe lurking frost in the earth beneathThat will steal forth after the sun is setAnd show on the water its crystal teeth.The time when most I loved my taskThe two must make me love it moreBy coming with what they came to ask.You'd think I never had felt beforeThe weight of an ax-head poised aloft,The grip of earth on outspread feet,The life of muscles rocking softAnd smooth and moist in vernal heat.Out of the wood two hulking tramps(From sleeping God knows where last night,But not long since in the lumber camps).They thought all chopping was theirs of right.Men of the woods and lumberjacks,They judged me by their appropriate tool.Except as a fellow handled an axThey had no way of knowing a fool.Nothing on either side was said.They knew they had but to stay their stayAnd all their logic would fill my head:As that I had no right to playWith what was another man's work for gain.My right might be love but theirs was need.And where the two exist in twainTheirs was the better right--agreed.But yield who will to their separation,My object in living is to uniteMy avocation and my vocationAs my two eyes make one in sight.Only where love and need are one,And the work is play for mortal stakes,Is the deed ever really doneFor Heaven and the future's sakes."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14495"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14495,
        ""poem.id"": 14495,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Once By The Pacific"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14496"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14496,
        ""poem.id"": 14496,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14497"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14497,
        ""poem.id"": 14497,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""October"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14498"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14498,
        ""poem.id"": 14498,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Come In"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14499"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14499,
        ""poem.id"": 14499,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Out, Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14500"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14500,
        ""poem.id"": 14500,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14501"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14501,
        ""poem.id"": 14501,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gathering Leaves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14502"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14502,
        ""poem.id"": 14502,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ghost House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14503"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14503,
        ""poem.id"": 14503,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:33:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Design"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14504"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14504,
        ""poem.id"": 14504,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"In White\": Frost's Early Version Of Design"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14505"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14505,
        ""poem.id"": 14505,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Servant To Servants"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I didn't make you know how glad I wasTo have you come and camp here on our land.I promised myself to get down some dayAnd see the way you lived, but I don't know!With a houseful of hungry men to feedI guess you'd find.... It seems to meI can't express my feelings any moreThan I can raise my voice or want to liftMy hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.It's got so I don't even know for sureWhether I am glad, sorry, or anything.There's nothing but a voice-like left insideThat seems to tell me how I ought to feel,And would feel if I wasn't all gone wrong.You take the lake. I look and look at it.I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water.I stand and make myself repeat out loudThe advantages it has, so long and narrow,Like a deep piece of some old running riverCut short off at both ends. It lies five milesStraight away through the mountain notchFrom the sink window where I wash the plates,And all our storms come up toward the house,Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuitTo step outdoors and take the water dazzleA sunny morning, or take the rising windAbout my face and body and through my wrapper,When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den,And a cold chill shivered across the lake.I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water,Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?I expect, though, everyone's heard of it.In a book about ferns? Listen to that!You let things more like feathers regulateYour going and coming. And you like it here?I can see how you might. But I don't know!It would be different if more people came,For then there would be business. As it is,The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,Sometimes we don't. We've a good piece of shoreThat ought to be worth something, and may yet.But I don't count on it as much as Len.He looks on the bright side of everything,Including me. He thinks I'll be all rightWith doctoring. But it's not medicine--Lowe is the only doctor's dared to say so--It's rest I want--there, I have said it out--From cooking meals for hungry hired menAnd washing dishes after them--from doingThings over and over that just won't stay done.By good rights I ought not to have so muchPut on me, but there seems no other way.Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.He says the best way out is always through.And I agree to that, or in so farAs that I can see no way out but through--Leastways for me--and then they'll be convinced.It's not that Len don't want the best for me.It was his plan our moving over inBeside the lake from where that day I showed youWe used to live--ten miles from anywhere.We didn't change without some sacrifice,But Len went at it to make up the loss.His work's a man's, of course, from sun to sun,But he works when he works as hard as I do--Though there's small profit in comparisons.(Women and men will make them all the same.)But work ain't all. Len undertakes too much.He's into everything in town. This yearIt's highways, and he's got too many menAround him to look after that make waste.They take advantage of him shamefully,And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,Sprawling about the kitchen with their talkWhile I fry their bacon. Much they care!No more put out in what they do or sayThan if I wasn't in the room at all.Coming and going all the time, they are:I don't learn what their names are, let aloneTheir characters, or whether they are safeTo have inside the house with doors unlocked.I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're notAfraid of me. There's two can play at that.I have my fancies: it runs in the family.My father's brother wasn't right. They kept himLocked up for years back there at the old farm.I've been away once--yes, I've been away.The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;I wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there;You know the old idea--the only asylumWas the poorhouse, and those who could afford,Rather than send their folks to such a place,Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.But it's not so: the place is the asylum.There they have every means proper to do with,And you aren't darkening other people's lives--Worse than no good to them, and they no goodTo you in your condition; you can't knowAffection or the want of it in that state.I've heard too much of the old-fashioned way.My father's brother, he went mad quite young.Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,Because his violence took on the formOf carrying his pillow in his teeth;But it's more likely he was crossed in love,Or so the story goes. It was some girl.Anyway all he talked about was love.They soon saw he would do someone a mischiefIf he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it endedIn father's building him a sort of cage,Or room within a room, of hickory poles,Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,--A narrow passage all the way around.Anything they put in for furnitureHe'd tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.So they made the place comfortable with straw,Like a beast's stall, to ease their consciences.Of course they had to feed him without dishes.They tried to keep him clothed, but he paradedWith his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes.Cruel--it sounds. I 'spose they did the bestThey knew. And just when he was at the height,Father and mother married, and mother came,A bride, to help take care of such a creature,And accommodate her young life to his.That was what marrying father meant to her.She had to lie and hear love things made dreadfulBy his shouts in the night. He'd shout and shoutUntil the strength was shouted out of him,And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.He'd pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,And let them go and make them twang untilHis hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.And then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play--The only fun he had. I've heard them say, though,They found a way to put a stop to it.He was before my time--I never saw him;But the pen stayed exactly as it wasThere in the upper chamber in the ell,A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.I often think of the smooth hickory bars.It got so I would say--you know, half fooling--\"It's time I took my turn upstairs in jail\"--Just as you will till it becomes a habit.No wonder I was glad to get away.Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.I didn't want the blame if things went wrong.I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,And I looked to be happy, and I was,As I said, for a while--but I don't know!Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.And there's more to it than just window-viewsAnd living by a lake. I'm past such help--Unless Len took the notion, which he won't,And I won't ask him--it's not sure enough.I 'spose I've got to go the road I'm going:Other folks have to, and why shouldn't I?I almost think if I could do like you,Drop everything and live out on the ground--But it might be, come night, I shouldn't like it,Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,And be glad of a good roof overhead.I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant,More than you have yourself, some of these nights.The wonder was the tents weren't snatched awayFrom over you as you lay in your beds.I haven't courage for a risk like that.Bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work,But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.There's work enough to do--there's always that;But behind's behind. The worst that you can doIs set me back a little more behind.I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.I'd rather you'd not go unless you must."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14506"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14506,
        ""poem.id"": 14506,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tree At My Window"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14507"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14507,
        ""poem.id"": 14507,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dust Of Snow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14508"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14508,
        ""poem.id"": 14508,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Devotion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14509"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14509,
        ""poem.id"": 14509,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fireflies In The Garden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14510"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14510,
        ""poem.id"": 14510,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Silken Tent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14511"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14511,
        ""poem.id"": 14511,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Cliff Dwelling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14512"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14512,
        ""poem.id"": 14512,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Old Man's Winter Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14513"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14513,
        ""poem.id"": 14513,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream Pang"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14514"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14514,
        ""poem.id"": 14514,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Secret Sits"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14515"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14515,
        ""poem.id"": 14515,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bereft"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14516"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14516,
        ""poem.id"": 14516,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Line-Storm Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14517"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14517,
        ""poem.id"": 14517,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Desert Places"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14518"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14518,
        ""poem.id"": 14518,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:34:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mending Wall"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: \"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!\" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, \"Good fences make good neighbours.\" Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: \"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.\" I could say \"Elves\" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, \"Good fences make good neighbours.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14519"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14519,
        ""poem.id"": 14519,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Considerable Speck"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14520"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14520,
        ""poem.id"": 14520,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Patch Of Old Snow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14521"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14521,
        ""poem.id"": 14521,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""After Apple Picking"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14522"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14522,
        ""poem.id"": 14522,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose Family"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14523"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14523,
        ""poem.id"": 14523,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Boundless Moment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14524"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14524,
        ""poem.id"": 14524,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Asking For Roses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14525"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14525,
        ""poem.id"": 14525,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Brook In The City"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14526"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14526,
        ""poem.id"": 14526,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Birches"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy's been swinging them.But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen themLoaded with ice a sunny winter morningAfter a rain. They click upon themselvesAs the breeze rises, and turn many-colouredAs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shellsShattering and avalanching on the snow-crustSuch heaps of broken glass to sweep awayYou'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,And they seem not to break; though once they are bowedSo low for long, they never right themselves:You may see their trunks arching in the woodsYears afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hairBefore them over their heads to dry in the sun.But I was going to say when Truth broke inWith all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,I should prefer to have some boy bend themAs he went out and in to fetch the cows- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,Whose only play was what he found himself,Summer or winter, and could play alone.One by one he subdued his father's treesBy riding them down over and over againUntil he took the stiffness out of them,And not one but hung limp, not one was leftFor him to conquer. He learned all there wasTo learn about not launching out too soonAnd so not carrying the tree awayClear to the ground. He always kept his poiseTo the top branches, climbing carefullyWith the same pains you use to fill a cupUp to the brim, and even above the brim.Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.So was I once myself a swinger of birches.And so I dream of going back to be.It's when I'm weary of considerations,And life is too much like a pathless woodWhere your face burns and tickles with the cobwebsBroken across it, and one eye is weepingFrom a twig's having lashed across it open.I'd like to get away from earth awhileAnd then come back to it and begin over.May no fate willfully misunderstand meAnd half grant what I wish and snatch me awayNot to return. Earth's the right place for love:I don't know where it's likely to go better.I'd like to go by climbing a birch treeAnd climb black branches up a snow-white trunkToward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,But dipped its top and set me down again.That would be good both going and coming back.One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14527"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14527,
        ""poem.id"": 14527,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Time To Talk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14528"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14528,
        ""poem.id"": 14528,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prayer In Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14529"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14529,
        ""poem.id"": 14529,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Soldier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14530"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14530,
        ""poem.id"": 14530,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Question"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14531"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14531,
        ""poem.id"": 14531,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Minor Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14532"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14532,
        ""poem.id"": 14532,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Late Walk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14533"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14533,
        ""poem.id"": 14533,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Acquainted With The Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14534"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14534,
        ""poem.id"": 14534,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:35:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nothing Gold Can Stay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14535"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14535,
        ""poem.id"": 14535,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fire And Ice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14536"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14536,
        ""poem.id"": 14536,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    },
    ""14537"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14537,
        ""poem.id"": 14537,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Road Not Taken"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Frost""
    }
}"
2,"2018-02-28 20:19:00","Maya Angelou","{
    ""41"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 41,
        ""poem.id"": 41,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rock Cries Out to Us Today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.Your armed struggles for profitHave left collars of waste uponMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.Yet, today I call you to my riverside,If you will study war no more.Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,Then forced on bloody feet,Left me to the employment of other seekers- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours- your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me,The rock, the river, the tree, your country.No less to Midas than the mendicant.No less to you now than the mastodon then.Here on the pulse of this new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""42"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 42,
        ""poem.id"": 42,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song for the Old Ones"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""My Fathers sit on benches their flesh counts every plank the slats leave dents of darknessdeep in their withered flanks.They nod like broken candles all waxed and burnt profound they say 'It's understandingthat makes the world go round.'There in those pleated faces I see the auction block the chains and slavery's cofflesthe whip and lash and stock.My Fathers speak in voices that shred my fact and sound they say 'It's our submissionthat makes the world go round.'They used the finest cunning their naked wits and wiles the lowly Uncle Tommingand Aunt Jemima's smiles.They've laughed to shield their crying then shuffled through their dreams and stepped 'n' fetched a countryto write the blues with screams.I understand their meaning it could and did derive from living on the edge of deathThey kept my race alive."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""43"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 43,
        ""poem.id"": 43,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:45:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In All Ways A Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In my young years I took pride in the fact that luck was called a lady. In fact, there were so few public acknowledgments of the female presence that I felt personally honored whenever nature and large ships were referred to as feminine. But as I matured, I began to resent being considered a sister to a changeling as fickle as luck, as aloof as an ocean, and as frivolous as nature. The phrase 'A woman always has the right to change her mind' played so aptly into the negative image of the female that I made myself a victim to an unwavering decision. Even if I made an inane and stupid choice, I stuck by it rather than 'be like a woman and change my mind.'Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.The woman who survives intact and happy must be at once tender and tough. She must have convinced herself, or be in the unending process of convincing herself, that she, her values, and her choices are important. In a time a nd world where males hold sway and control, the pressure upon women to yield their rights-of-way is tremendous. And it is under those very circumstances that the woman's toughness must be in evidence.She must resist considering herself a lesser version of her male counterpart. She is not a sculptress, poetess, authoress, Jewess, Negress, or even (now rare) in university parlance a rectoress. If she is the thing, then for her own sense of self and for the education of the ill-informed she must insist with rectitude in being the thing and in being called the thing.A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but a woman called by a devaluing name will only be weakened by the misnomer. She will need to prize her tenderness and be able to display it at appropriate times in order to prevent toughness from gaining total authority and to avoid becoming a mirror image of those men who value power above life, and control over love.It is imperative that a woman keep her sense of humor intact and at the ready. She must see, even if only in secret, that she is the funniest, looniest woman in her world, which she should also see as being the most absurd world of all times. It has been said that laughter is therapeutic and amiability lengthens the life span. Women should be tough, tender, laugh as much as possible, and live long lives. The struggle for equality continues unabated, and the woman warrior who is armed with wit and courage will be among the first to celebrate victory."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""44"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 44,
        ""poem.id"": 44,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Glory Falls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Glory falls around us as we sob a dirge of desolation on the Cross and hatred is the ballast of the rock which his upon our necks and underfoot. We have woven robes of silk and clothed our nakedness with tapestry. From crawling on this murky planet's floor we soar beyond the birds and through the clouds and edge our waays from hate and blind despair and bring horror to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer. We grow despite the horror that we feed upon our own tomorrow. We grow."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""45"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 45,
        ""poem.id"": 45,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Week of Diana"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The dark lantern of world sadness has cast its shadow upon the land.We stumble into our misery on leaden feet.Our minds seek to comprehend the unknowable and our hearts seek toMeasure a tomorrow without the Sunshine Princess.Her hands which had held bright tiaras and jewelled crowns,Also stroked the faces of pain alongAngola's dusty roads.She was born to the privilege of plentyYet, she communed with the needy without a show of pompous piety.Glowing in Bosnia, radiant at glittering balls,We came to love her and claim her for her grace and accessibility.Luminous always.We smiled to see her enter and grinned at her happiness.Now the world we made is forever changed…Made smaller, meaner, less colorful.Yet, because she did live,Because she ventured life and confronted change,She has left us a legacy.We also may dare…To care for some other than ourselves and those who look like us.And maybe we can take a lesson from herAnd try to live our livesWith passion, compassion, humor and grace.Goodbye Sunshine Princess."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""46"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 46,
        ""poem.id"": 46,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Harlem Hopscotch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""One foot down, then hop! It's hot. Good things for the ones that's got.Another jump, now to the left. Everybody for hisself.In the air, now both feet down. Since you black, don't stick around.Food is gone, the rent is due, Curse and cry and then jump two.All the people out of work, Hold for three, then twist and jerk.Cross the line, they count you out. That's what hopping's all about.Both feet flat, the game is done.They think I lost. I think I won."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""47"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 47,
        ""poem.id"": 47,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Traveller"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Byways and bygoneAnd lone nights longSun rays and sea wavesAnd star and stoneManless and friendlessNo cave my homeThis is my tortureMy long nights, lone"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""48"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 48,
        ""poem.id"": 48,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Black Family Pledge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""BECAUSE we have forgotten our ancestors,our children no longer give us honor.BECAUSE we have lost the path our ancestors clearedkneeling in perilous undergrowth,our children cannot find their way.BECAUSE we have banished the God of our ancestors,our children cannot pray.BECAUSE the old wails of our ancestors have faded beyond our hearing,our children cannot hear us crying.BECAUSE we have abandoned our wisdom of mothering and fathering,our befuddled children give birth to childrenthey neither want nor understand.BECAUSE we have forgotten how to love, the adversary is within ourgates, an holds us up to the mirror of the world shouting,'Regard the loveless'Therefore we pledge to bind ourselves to one another, to embrace ourlowliest, to keep company with our loneliest, to educate our illiterate,to feed our starving, to clothe our ragged, to do all good things,knowing that we are more than keepers of our brothers and sisters.We ARE our brothers and sisters.IN HONOR of those who toiled and implored God with golden tongues,and in gratitude to the same God who brought us out of hopeless desolation, we make this pledge."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""49"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 49,
        ""poem.id"": 49,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Our Grandmothers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/14/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""She lay, skin down in the moist dirt, the canebrake rustling with the whispers of leaves, and loud longing of hounds and the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom, I shall not, I shall not be moved.She gathered her babies, their tears slick as oil on black faces, their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness. Momma, is Master going to sell you from us tomorrow?Yes. Unless you keep walking more and talking less. Yes. Unless the keeper of our lives releases me from all commandments. Yes. And your lives, never mine to live, will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents. Unless you match my heart and words, saying with me,I shall not be moved.In Virginia tobacco fields, leaning into the curve of Steinway pianos, along Arkansas roads, in the red hills of Georgia, into the palms of her chained hands, she cried against calamity, You have tried to destroy me and though I perish daily,I shall not be moved.Her universe, often summarized into one black body falling finally from the tree to her feet, made her cry each time into a new voice. All my past hastens to defeat, and strangers claim the glory of my love, Iniquity has bound me to his bed.yet, I must not be moved.She heard the names, swirling ribbons in the wind of history: nigger, nigger bitch, heifer, mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon, whore, hot tail, thing, it. She said, But my description cannot fit your tongue, for I have a certain way of being in this world,and I shall not, I shall not be moved.No angel stretched protecting wings above the heads of her children, fluttering and urging the winds of reason into the confusions of their lives. The sprouted like young weeds, but she could not shield their growth from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor shape them into symbolic topiaries. She sent them away, underground, overland, in coaches and shoeless.When you learn, teach. When you get, give. As for me,I shall not be moved.She stood in midocean, seeking dry land. She searched God's face. Assured, she placed her fire of service on the altar, and though clothed in the finery of faith, when she appeared at the temple door, no sign welcomed Black Grandmother, Enter here.Into the crashing sound, into wickedness, she cried, No one, no, nor no one million ones dare deny me God, I go forth along, and stand as ten thousand.The Divine upon my right impels me to pull forever at the latch on Freedom's gate.The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my feet without ceasing into the camp of the righteous and into the tents of the free.These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple, honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted down a pyramid for years. She is Sheba the Sojourner, Harriet and Zora, Mary Bethune and Angela, Annie to Zenobia.She stands before the abortion clinic, confounded by the lack of choices. In the Welfare line, reduced to the pity of handouts. Ordained in the pulpit, shielded by the mysteries. In the operating room, husbanding life. In the choir loft, holding God in her throat. On lonely street corners, hawking her body. In the classroom, loving the children to understanding.Centered on the world's stage, she sings to her loves and beloveds, to her foes and detractors: However I am perceived and deceived, however my ignorance and conceits, lay aside your fears that I will be undone,for I shall not be moved."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""50"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 50,
        ""poem.id"": 50,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ain't That Bad?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Dancin' the funky chickenEatin' ribs and tipsDiggin' all the latest soundsAnd drinkin' gin in sips.Puttin' down that do-ragTighten' up my 'froWrappin' up in BlacknessDon't I shine and glow?Hearin' Stevie WonderCookin' beans and riceGoin' to the operaCheckin' out Leontyne Price.Get down, Jesse JacksonDance on, Alvin AileyTalk, Miss Barbara JordanGroove, Miss Pearlie Bailey.Now ain't they bad?An ain't they Black?An ain't they Black?An' ain't they Bad?An ain't they bad?An' ain't they Black?An' ain't they fine?Black like the hour of the nightWhen your love turns and wriggles close to your sideBlack as the earth which has given birthTo nations, and when all else is gone will abide.Bad as the storm that leaps raging from the heavensBringing the welcome rainBad as the sun burning orange hot at middayLifting the waters again.Arthur Ashe on the tennis courtMohammed Ali in the ringAndre Watts and Andrew YoungBlack men doing their thing.Dressing in purples and pinks and greensExotic as rum and CokesLiving our lives with flash and styleAin't we colorful folks?Now ain't we bad?An' ain't we Black?An' ain't we Black?An' ain't we bad?An' ain't we bad?An' ain't we Black?An' ain't we fine?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""51"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 51,
        ""poem.id"": 51,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Think About Myself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/15/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big joke, A dance that's walked A song that's spoke, I laugh so hard I almost choke When I think about myself.Sixty years in these folks' world The child I works for calls me girl I say 'Yes ma'am' for working's sake. Too proud to bend Too poor to break, I laugh until my stomach ache, When I think about myself.My folks can make me split my side, I laughed so hard I nearly died, The tales they tell, sound just like lying, They grow the fruit, But eat the rind, I laugh until I start to crying, When I think about my folks."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""52"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 52,
        ""poem.id"": 52,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Son to Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I start nowars, raining poisonon cathedrals,melting Stars of Davidinto golden faucetsto be lighted by lampsshaded by human skin.I set nostore on the strange lands,send nomissionaries beyond myborders,to plunder secretsand barter souls.Theysay you took my manhood,Momma.Come sit on my lapand tell me,what do you want me to sayto them, justbefore I annihilatetheir ignorance ?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""53"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 53,
        ""poem.id"": 53,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Health-Food Diner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/16/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Health-Food DinerNo sprouted wheat and soya shootsAnd Brussels in a cake,Carrot straw and spinach raw,(Today, I need a steak).Not thick brown rice and rice pilawOr mushrooms creamed on toast,Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,(I'm dreaming of a roast).Health-food folks around the worldAre thinned by anxious zeal,They look for help in seafood kelp(I count on breaded veal).No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,Zucchini by the ton,Uncooked kale and bodies frailAre sure to make me runtoLoins of pork and chicken thighsAnd standing rib, so prime,Pork chops brown and fresh ground round(I crave them all the time).Irish stews and boiled corned beefand hot dogs by the scores,or any place that saves a spaceFor smoking carnivores."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""54"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 54,
        ""poem.id"": 54,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Aging"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When you see me sitting quietly,Like a sack left on the shelf,Don’t think I need your chattering.I’m listening to myself.Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me! Hold! Stop your sympathy! Understanding if you got it,Otherwise I’ll do without it! When my bones are stiff and aching,And my feet won’t climb the stair,I will only ask one favor:Don’t bring me no rocking chair.When you see me walking, stumbling,Don’t study and get it wrong.‘Cause tired don’t mean lazyAnd every goodbye ain’t gone.I’m the same person I was back then,A little less hair, a little less chin,A lot less lungs and much less wind.But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""55"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 55,
        ""poem.id"": 55,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Yet To Be United States"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Tremors of your network cause kings to disappear. Your open mouth in anger makes nations bow in fear.Your bombs can change the seasons, obliterate the spring. What more do you long for ? Why are you suffering ?You control the human lives in Rome and Timbuktu. Lonely nomads wandering owe Telstar to you.Seas shift at your bidding, your mushrooms fill the sky. Why are you unhappy ? Why do your children cry ?They kneel alone in terror with dread in every glance. Their nights ['rights' ? - Schrift nicht lesbar] are threatened daily by a grim inheritance.You dwell in whitened castles with deep and poisoned moats and cannot hear the curses which fill your children's throats."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""56"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 56,
        ""poem.id"": 56,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Preacher, Don't Send Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Preacher, don't send mewhen I dieto some big ghettoin the skywhere rats eat catsof the leopard typeand Sunday brunchis grits and tripe.I've known those ratsI've seen them killand grits I've hadwould make a hill,or maybe a mountain,so what I needfrom you on Sundayis a different creed.Preacher, please don'tpromise mestreets of goldand milk for free.I stopped all milkat four years oldand once I'm deadI won't need gold.I'd call a placepure paradisewhere families are loyaland strangers are nice,where the music is jazzand the season is fall.Promise me thator nothing at all."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""57"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 57,
        ""poem.id"": 57,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:46:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pickin Em Up and Layin Em Down"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There's a long-legged girlin San Franciscoby the Golden Gate.She said she'd give me all I wantedbut I just couldn't wait.I started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,gettin to the next townBaby.There's a pretty brownin Birmingham.Boys, she little and cutebut when she like to tied me downI had to grab my suit and started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,getting to the next townBaby.I met that lovely Detroit ladyand thought my time had comeBut just before I said \"I do\"I said \"I got to run\" and started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,getting to the next townBaby.There ain't no words for what I feelabout a pretty faceBut if I stay I just might missa prettier one some placeI started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,getting to the next townBaby."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""58"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 58,
        ""poem.id"": 58,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Recovery"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Last love,proper in conclusion,should snip the wingsforbidding further flight.But I, now,reft of that confusion,am lifted upand speeding toward the light."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""59"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 59,
        ""poem.id"": 59,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I know why the caged bird sings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A free bird leaps on the backOf the wind and floats downstream Till the current ends and dips his wing In the orange suns raysAnd dares to claim the sky.But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cageCan seldom see through his bars of rageHis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedSo he opens his throat to sing.The caged bird sings with a fearful trillOf things unknown but longed for stillAnd his tune is heard on the distant hill forThe caged bird sings of freedom.The free bird thinks of another breezeAnd the trade winds soft throughThe sighing treesAnd the fat worms waiting on a dawn-brightLawn and he names the sky his own.But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreamsHis shadow shouts on a nightmare screamHis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedSo he opens his throat to sing.The caged bird sings withA fearful trill of things unknownBut longed for still and hisTune is heard on the distant hillFor the caged bird sings of freedom."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""60"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 60,
        ""poem.id"": 60,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Great Trees Fall"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/15/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""61"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 61,
        ""poem.id"": 61,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Old Folks Laugh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""They have spent theircontent of simpering,holding their lips thisand that way, windingthe lines betweentheir brows. Old folksallow their bellies to jiggle like slowtambourines.The hollersrise up and spillover any way they want.When old folks laugh, they free the world.They turn slowly, slyly knowingthe best and the worstof remembering.Saliva glistens inthe corners of their mouths,their heads wobbleon brittle necks, buttheir lapsare filled with memories.When old folks laugh, they consider the promiseof dear painless death, and generouslyforgive life for happeningto them."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""62"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 62,
        ""poem.id"": 62,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Televised"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""63"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 63,
        ""poem.id"": 63,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Life Doesn't Frighten Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/6/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Shadows on the wallNoises down the hallLife doesn't frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loudBig ghosts in a cloudLife doesn't frighten me at all Mean old Mother GooseLions on the looseThey don't frighten me at all Dragons breathing flameOn my counterpaneThat doesn't frighten me at all. I go booMake them shooI make funWay they runI won't crySo they flyI just smileThey go wild Life doesn't frighten me at all. Tough guys fightAll alone at nightLife doesn't frighten me at all. Panthers in the parkStrangers in the darkNo, they don't frighten me at all. That new classroom whereBoys all pull my hair(Kissy little girlsWith their hair in curls)They don't frighten me at all. Don't show me frogs and snakesAnd listen for my scream,If I'm afraid at allIt's only in my dreams. I've got a magic charmThat I keep up my sleeveI can walk the ocean floorAnd never have to breathe. Life doesn't frighten me at allNot at allNot at all. Life doesn't frighten me at all."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""64"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 64,
        ""poem.id"": 64,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Savior"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""65"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 65,
        ""poem.id"": 65,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""California Prodigal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""66"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 66,
        ""poem.id"": 66,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mothering Blackness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""67"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 67,
        ""poem.id"": 67,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Had Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""68"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 68,
        ""poem.id"": 68,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Human Family"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/4/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I note the obvious differencesin the human family.Some of us are serious,some thrive on comedy.Some declare their lives are livedas true profundity,and others claim they really livethe real reality.The variety of our skin tonescan confuse, bemuse, delight,brown and pink and beige and purple,tan and blue and white.I've sailed upon the seven seasand stopped in every land,I've seen the wonders of the worldnot yet one common man.I know ten thousand womencalled Jane and Mary Jane,but I've not seen any twowho really were the same.Mirror twins are differentalthough their features jibe,and lovers think quite different thoughtswhile lying side by side.We love and lose in China,we weep on England's moors,and laugh and moan in Guinea,and thrive on Spanish shores.We seek success in Finland,are born and die in Maine.In minor ways we differ,in major we're the same.I note the obvious differencesbetween each sort and type,but we are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike.We are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike.We are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""69"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 69,
        ""poem.id"": 69,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""70"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 70,
        ""poem.id"": 70,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Plagued Journey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""71"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 71,
        ""poem.id"": 71,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Equality"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""72"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 72,
        ""poem.id"": 72,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:47:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Awaking In New York"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""73"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 73,
        ""poem.id"": 73,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Brave And Startling Truth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": ""We, this people, on a small and lonely planet Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns To a destination where all signs tell us It is possible and imperative that we learn A brave and startling truth And when we come to it To the day of peacemaking When we release our fingers From fists of hostility And allow the pure air to cool our palms When we come to it When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean When battlefields and coliseum No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters Up with the bruised and bloody grass To lie in identical plots in foreign soil When the rapacious storming of the churches The screaming racket in the temples have ceased When the pennants are waving gaily When the banners of the world tremble Stoutly in the good, clean breeze When we come to it When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders And children dress their dolls in flags of truce When land mines of death have been removed And the aged can walk into evenings of peace When religious ritual is not perfumed By the incense of burning flesh And childhood dreams are not kicked awake By nightmares of abuse When we come to it Then we will confess that not the Pyramids With their stones set in mysterious perfection Nor the Gardens of Babylon Hanging as eternal beauty In our collective memory Not the Grand Canyon Kindled into delicious color By Western sunsets Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji Stretching to the Rising Sun Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor, Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores These are not the only wonders of the world When we come to it We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace We, this people on this mote of matter In whose mouths abide cankerous words Which challenge our very existence Yet out of those same mouths Come songs of such exquisite sweetness That the heart falters in its labor And the body is quieted into awe We, this people, on this small and drifting planet Whose hands can strike with such abandon That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness That the haughty neck is happy to bow And the proud back is glad to bend Out of such chaos, of such contradiction We learn that we are neither devils nor divines When we come to it We, this people, on this wayward, floating body Created on this earth, of this earth Have the power to fashion for this earth A climate where every man and every woman Can live freely without sanctimonious piety Without crippling fear When we come to it We must confess that we are the possible We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world That is when, and only when We come to it."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""74"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 74,
        ""poem.id"": 74,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Pulse Of Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.Your armed struggles for profitHave left collars of waste uponMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.Yet, today I call you to my riverside,If you will study war no more.Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,Then forced on bloody feet,Left me to the employment of other seekers- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours- your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me,The rock, the river, the tree, your country.No less to Midas than the mendicant.No less to you now than the mastodon then.Here on the pulse of this new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""75"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 75,
        ""poem.id"": 75,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Momma Welfare Roll"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""76"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 76,
        ""poem.id"": 76,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Weekend Glory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""77"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 77,
        ""poem.id"": 77,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When You Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""78"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 78,
        ""poem.id"": 78,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Detached"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/18/2005"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""79"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 79,
        ""poem.id"": 79,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Insomniac"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""80"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 80,
        ""poem.id"": 80,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Remembrance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14578"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14578,
        ""poem.id"": 14578,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Million Man March Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The night has been long,The wound has been deep,The pit has been dark,And the walls have been steep.Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,You couldn't even call out my name.You were helpless and so was I,But unfortunately throughout historyYou've worn a badge of shame.I say, the night has been long,The wound has been deep,The pit has been darkAnd the walls have been steep.But today, voices of old spirit soundSpeak to us in words profound,Across the years, across the centuries,Across the oceans, and across the seas.They say, draw near to one another,Save your race.You have been paid for in a distant place,The old ones remind us that slavery's chainsHave paid for our freedom again and again.The night has been long,The pit has been deep,The night has been dark,And the walls have been steep.The hells we have lived through and live through still,Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.The night has been long.This morning I look through your anguishRight down to your soul.I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.I look through the posture and past your disguise,And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,Let us come together and revise our spirits,Let us come together and cleanse our souls,Clap hands, let's leave the preeningAnd stop impostering our own history.Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,Courtesy into our bedrooms,Gentleness into our kitchen,Care into our nursery.The ancestors remind us, despite the history of painWe are a going-on people who will rise again.And still we rise."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14579"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14579,
        ""poem.id"": 14579,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Went Home"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/18/2005"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14580"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14580,
        ""poem.id"": 14580,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Passing Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14581"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14581,
        ""poem.id"": 14581,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Conceit"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14582"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14582,
        ""poem.id"": 14582,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Refusal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14583"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14583,
        ""poem.id"": 14583,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lesson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14584"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14584,
        ""poem.id"": 14584,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14585"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14585,
        ""poem.id"": 14585,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Woman Work"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14586"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14586,
        ""poem.id"": 14586,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Touched By An Angel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14587"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14587,
        ""poem.id"": 14587,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14588"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14588,
        ""poem.id"": 14588,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:36:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Caged Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14589"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14589,
        ""poem.id"": 14589,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Still I Rise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    },
    ""14590"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14590,
        ""poem.id"": 14590,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Phenomenal Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Maya Angelou""
    }
}"
3,"2018-02-28 20:20:02","William Shakespeare","{
    ""81"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 81,
        ""poem.id"": 81,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Procreation Sonnets (1 - 17)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""82"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 82,
        ""poem.id"": 82,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""83"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 83,
        ""poem.id"": 83,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:48:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""84"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 84,
        ""poem.id"": 84,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""85"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 85,
        ""poem.id"": 85,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""86"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 86,
        ""poem.id"": 86,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xci"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""87"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 87,
        ""poem.id"": 87,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rival Poet Sonnets (78 - 86)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""88"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 88,
        ""poem.id"": 88,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""89"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 89,
        ""poem.id"": 89,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""90"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 90,
        ""poem.id"": 90,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""91"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 91,
        ""poem.id"": 91,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Speech: \"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/22/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Caesar. The noble BrutusHath told you Caesar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-For Brutus is an honourable man;So are they all, all honourable men-Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honourable man.He hath brought many captives home to RomeWhose ransoms did the general coffers fill:Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honourable man.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honourable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once, not without cause:What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,And I must pause till it come back to me."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""92"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 92,
        ""poem.id"": 92,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xxv: Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""93"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 93,
        ""poem.id"": 93,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""94"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 94,
        ""poem.id"": 94,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""95"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 95,
        ""poem.id"": 95,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Three witches, casting a spell ...Round about the cauldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights hast thirty one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""96"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 96,
        ""poem.id"": 96,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""97"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 97,
        ""poem.id"": 97,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xli"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""98"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 98,
        ""poem.id"": 98,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:49:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""99"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 99,
        ""poem.id"": 99,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""100"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 100,
        ""poem.id"": 100,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""101"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 101,
        ""poem.id"": 101,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""102"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 102,
        ""poem.id"": 102,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xcix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""103"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 103,
        ""poem.id"": 103,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xc"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""104"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 104,
        ""poem.id"": 104,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song of the Witches: \"Double, double toil and trouble\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn and caldron bubble.Fillet of a fenny snake,In the caldron boil and bake;Eye of newt and toe of frog,Wool of bat and tongue of dog,Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,For a charm of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn and caldron bubble.Cool it with a baboon's blood,Then the charm is firm and good."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""105"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 105,
        ""poem.id"": 105,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""106"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 106,
        ""poem.id"": 106,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""107"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 107,
        ""poem.id"": 107,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""108"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 108,
        ""poem.id"": 108,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some Say That Ever ‘Gainst That Season Comes (Hamlet, Act I, Scene I)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Marcellus to Horatio and Bernardo, after seeing the Ghost,Some say that ever ‘gainst that season comesWherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,This bird of dawning singeth all night long;And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""109"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 109,
        ""poem.id"": 109,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xcv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""110"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 110,
        ""poem.id"": 110,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""111"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 111,
        ""poem.id"": 111,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""112"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 112,
        ""poem.id"": 112,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:50:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xix: Devouring Time, Blunt Thou The Lion's Paws"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""113"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 113,
        ""poem.id"": 113,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet X"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""114"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 114,
        ""poem.id"": 114,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets To The Sundry Notes Of Music"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""115"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 115,
        ""poem.id"": 115,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Speech: \"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/20/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""116"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 116,
        ""poem.id"": 116,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Viii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""117"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 117,
        ""poem.id"": 117,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Canakin Clink Pub Song (From 'Othello')"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""And let me the canakin clink, clink;And let me the canakin clinkA soldier's a man;A life's but a span;Why, then, let a soldier drink."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""118"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 118,
        ""poem.id"": 118,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Liii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""119"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 119,
        ""poem.id"": 119,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""120"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 120,
        ""poem.id"": 120,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Vi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14631"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14631,
        ""poem.id"": 14631,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14632"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14632,
        ""poem.id"": 14632,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14633"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14633,
        ""poem.id"": 14633,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14634"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14634,
        ""poem.id"": 14634,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xcviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14635"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14635,
        ""poem.id"": 14635,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14636"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14636,
        ""poem.id"": 14636,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Rape Of Lucrece"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,Swelling on either side to want his bliss;Between whose hills her head entombed is; Where like a virtuous monument she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.Without the bed her other fair hand was,On the green coverlet, whose perfect whiteShowed like an April daisy on the grass,With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, And canopied in darkness sweetly lay Till they might open to adorn the day.Her hair like golden threads played with her breathO modest wantons, wanton modesty!Showing life's triumph in the map of death,And death's dim look in life's mortality.Each in her sleep themselves so beautify As if between them twain there were no strife, But that life lived in death, and death in life.Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,A pair of maiden worlds unconquerèd,Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,And him by oath they truly honourèd.These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred, Who like a foul usurper went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out.What could he see but mightily he noted?What did he note but strongly he desired?What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,And in his will his willful eye he tired.With more than admiration he admired Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.As the grim lion fawneth o'er his preySharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,His rage of lust by gazing qualified;Slacked, not suppressed; for, standing by her side, His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting.In bloody death and ravishment delighting,Nor children's tears nor mothers' groans respecting,Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,His eye commends the leading to his hand;His hand, as proud of such a dignity,Smoking with pride, marched on to make his standOn her bare breast, the heart of all her land, Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, Left their round turrets destitute and pale.They, mustering to the quiet cabinetWhere their dear governess and lady lies,Do tell her she is dreadfully besetAnd fright her with confusion of their cries.She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes, Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.Imagine her as one in dead of nightFrom forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking.What terror ‘tis! but she, in worser taking, From sleep disturbèd, heedfully doth view The sight which makes supposèd terror true.Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies.She dares not look; yet, winking, there appearsQuick-shifting antics ugly in her eyes.Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries, Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.His hand, that yet remains upon her breast(Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!)May feel her heart (poor citizen) distressed,Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. This moves in him more rage and lesser pity, To make the breach and enter this sweet city."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14637"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14637,
        ""poem.id"": 14637,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Vi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14638"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14638,
        ""poem.id"": 14638,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14639"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14639,
        ""poem.id"": 14639,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14640"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14640,
        ""poem.id"": 14640,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14641"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14641,
        ""poem.id"": 14641,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:37:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14642"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14642,
        ""poem.id"": 14642,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where The Bee Sucks (from The Tempest)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly. After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14643"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14643,
        ""poem.id"": 14643,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14644"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14644,
        ""poem.id"": 14644,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xciii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14645"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14645,
        ""poem.id"": 14645,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14646"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14646,
        ""poem.id"": 14646,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14647"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14647,
        ""poem.id"": 14647,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Liii: What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14648"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14648,
        ""poem.id"": 14648,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14649"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14649,
        ""poem.id"": 14649,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14650"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14650,
        ""poem.id"": 14650,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet V: Those Hours, That With Gentle Work Did Frame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14651"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14651,
        ""poem.id"": 14651,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14652"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14652,
        ""poem.id"": 14652,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14653"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14653,
        ""poem.id"": 14653,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Iv: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14654,
        ""poem.id"": 14654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14655,
        ""poem.id"": 14655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:38:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14656,
        ""poem.id"": 14656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14657,
        ""poem.id"": 14657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14658,
        ""poem.id"": 14658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xliii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14659,
        ""poem.id"": 14659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14660,
        ""poem.id"": 14660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14661,
        ""poem.id"": 14661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xcvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14662,
        ""poem.id"": 14662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14663,
        ""poem.id"": 14663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14664"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14664,
        ""poem.id"": 14664,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14665,
        ""poem.id"": 14665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14666,
        ""poem.id"": 14666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 7: “lo In The Orient When The Gracious Light…”"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14667,
        ""poem.id"": 14667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:39:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14668"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14668,
        ""poem.id"": 14668,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14669,
        ""poem.id"": 14669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14670"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14670,
        ""poem.id"": 14670,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14671,
        ""poem.id"": 14671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14672,
        ""poem.id"": 14672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xliv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14673,
        ""poem.id"": 14673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14674,
        ""poem.id"": 14674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xxxiii: Full Many A Glorious Morning Have I Seen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14675,
        ""poem.id"": 14675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Iv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14676,
        ""poem.id"": 14676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14677,
        ""poem.id"": 14677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14678,
        ""poem.id"": 14678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""William Shakespeare Epitaph"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Good frend for Iesvs sake forebeare,To digg the dvst encloased heare.Bleste be Middle English the.svg man Middle English that.svg spares thes stones,And cvrst be he Middle English that.svg moves my bones.In modern spelling:Good friend for Jesus sake forbear,To dig the dust enclosed here.Blessed be the man that spares these stones,And cursed be he that moves my bones."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14679"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14679,
        ""poem.id"": 14679,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14680"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14680,
        ""poem.id"": 14680,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14681"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14681,
        ""poem.id"": 14681,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:40:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14682"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14682,
        ""poem.id"": 14682,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14683,
        ""poem.id"": 14683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14684,
        ""poem.id"": 14684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Viii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14685,
        ""poem.id"": 14685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xcvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14686"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14686,
        ""poem.id"": 14686,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14687"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14687,
        ""poem.id"": 14687,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14688"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14688,
        ""poem.id"": 14688,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Cxlvi: Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14689"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14689,
        ""poem.id"": 14689,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Passionate Pilgrim"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14690"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14690,
        ""poem.id"": 14690,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14691"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14691,
        ""poem.id"": 14691,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14692"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14692,
        ""poem.id"": 14692,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14693"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14693,
        ""poem.id"": 14693,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14694"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14694,
        ""poem.id"": 14694,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 38:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14695"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14695,
        ""poem.id"": 14695,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:41:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14696"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14696,
        ""poem.id"": 14696,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14697"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14697,
        ""poem.id"": 14697,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14698"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14698,
        ""poem.id"": 14698,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14699"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14699,
        ""poem.id"": 14699,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14700"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14700,
        ""poem.id"": 14700,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14701"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14701,
        ""poem.id"": 14701,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14702"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14702,
        ""poem.id"": 14702,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14703"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14703,
        ""poem.id"": 14703,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14704"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14704,
        ""poem.id"": 14704,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14705"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14705,
        ""poem.id"": 14705,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xix: Devouring Time, Blunt Thou The Lion's Paws"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14706"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14706,
        ""poem.id"": 14706,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, Scene II [The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Enobarbus describes Queen CleopatraEnobarbus: I will tell you.The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;Purple the sails, and so perfumed thatThe winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver,Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and madeThe water which they beat to follow faster,As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,It beggar'd all description: she did lieIn her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue,O'erpicturing that Venus where we seeThe fancy outwork nature: on each side herStood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seemTo glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,And what they undid did.Agrippa: O, rare for Antony.Enobarbus: Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,So many mermaids, tended her i' th' eyes,And made their bends adornings. At the helmA seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackleSwell with the touches of those flower-soft handsThat yarely frame the office. From the bargeA strange invisible perfume hits the senseOf the adjacent wharfs. The city castHer people out upon her; and Antony,Enthroned i' th' marketplace, did sit alone,Whistling to th' air; which, but for vacancy,Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,And made a gap in nature.Agrippa: Rare Egyptian!Enobarbus: Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,Invited her to supper. She repliedIt should be better he became her guest;Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony,Whom ne'er the word of \"No\" woman heard speak,Being barbered ten times o'er, goes to the feast,And for his ordinary, pays his heartFor what his eyes eat only.Agrippa: Royal wench!She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed;He plowed her, and she cropped.Enobarbus: I saw her onceHop forty paces through the public street;And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,That she did make defect perfection,And, breathless, pow'r breathe forth.Maecenas: Now Antony must leave her utterly.Enobarbus: Never; He will not:Age cannot wither her, nor custom staleHer infinite variety. Other women cloyThe appetites they feed, but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies; for vilest thingsBecome themselves in her, that the holy priestsBless her when she is riggish."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14707"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14707,
        ""poem.id"": 14707,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:42:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14708"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14708,
        ""poem.id"": 14708,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14709"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14709,
        ""poem.id"": 14709,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 70:That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect…"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14710"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14710,
        ""poem.id"": 14710,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxviii: How Can My Muse Want Subject To Invent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14711"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14711,
        ""poem.id"": 14711,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14712"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14712,
        ""poem.id"": 14712,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Vii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14713"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14713,
        ""poem.id"": 14713,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxii: If Thou Survive My Well-Contented Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14714"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14714,
        ""poem.id"": 14714,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet L"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14715"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14715,
        ""poem.id"": 14715,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now The Hungry Lion Roars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""From \"A Midsummer-Night's Dream,\" Act V. Scene 2PUCK sings: NOW the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night, That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide: And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house: I am sent with broom before To sweep the dust behind the door."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14716"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14716,
        ""poem.id"": 14716,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Cx: Alas, 'Tis True I Have Gone Here And There"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14717"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14717,
        ""poem.id"": 14717,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ii: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14718"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14718,
        ""poem.id"": 14718,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Iii: Look In Thy Glass, And Tell The Face Thou Viewest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14719"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14719,
        ""poem.id"": 14719,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:43:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxx: When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14720"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14720,
        ""poem.id"": 14720,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14721"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14721,
        ""poem.id"": 14721,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14722"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14722,
        ""poem.id"": 14722,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet I: From Fairest Creatures We Desire Increase"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14723"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14723,
        ""poem.id"": 14723,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Lx: Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbl'D Shor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14724"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14724,
        ""poem.id"": 14724,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Ix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14725"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14725,
        ""poem.id"": 14725,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Li"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14726"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14726,
        ""poem.id"": 14726,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xv: When I Consider Everything That Grows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14727"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14727,
        ""poem.id"": 14727,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14728"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14728,
        ""poem.id"": 14728,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 63: Against My Love Shall Be As I Am Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14729"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14729,
        ""poem.id"": 14729,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxix: When, In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14730"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14730,
        ""poem.id"": 14730,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:44:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxlix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14731"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14731,
        ""poem.id"": 14731,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxlviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14732"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14732,
        ""poem.id"": 14732,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""St. Crispin’s Day Speech: From Henry V"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14733"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14733,
        ""poem.id"": 14733,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xxix: When, In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14734"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14734,
        ""poem.id"": 14734,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14735"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14735,
        ""poem.id"": 14735,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 69: Those Parts Of Thee That The World's Eye Doth View"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14736"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14736,
        ""poem.id"": 14736,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14737"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14737,
        ""poem.id"": 14737,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 2:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14738"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14738,
        ""poem.id"": 14738,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Vii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14739"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14739,
        ""poem.id"": 14739,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14740"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14740,
        ""poem.id"": 14740,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xxx: When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14741"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14741,
        ""poem.id"": 14741,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xciv: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14742"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14742,
        ""poem.id"": 14742,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xciv: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14743"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14743,
        ""poem.id"": 14743,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:45:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14744"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14744,
        ""poem.id"": 14744,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14745"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14745,
        ""poem.id"": 14745,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dark Lady Sonnets (127 - 154)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14746"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14746,
        ""poem.id"": 14746,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14747"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14747,
        ""poem.id"": 14747,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14748"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14748,
        ""poem.id"": 14748,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 61: Is It Thy Will Thy Image Should Keep Open"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14749"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14749,
        ""poem.id"": 14749,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxliv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14750"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14750,
        ""poem.id"": 14750,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14751"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14751,
        ""poem.id"": 14751,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxiii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14752"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14752,
        ""poem.id"": 14752,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 93: So Shall I Live, Supposing Thou Art True"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14753"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14753,
        ""poem.id"": 14753,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14754"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14754,
        ""poem.id"": 14754,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14755"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14755,
        ""poem.id"": 14755,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 72: O, Lest The World Should Task You To Recite"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14756"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14756,
        ""poem.id"": 14756,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:46:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxiv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14757"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14757,
        ""poem.id"": 14757,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Clii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14758"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14758,
        ""poem.id"": 14758,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14759"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14759,
        ""poem.id"": 14759,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Helen's Soliloqy (All's Well That Ends Well)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14760"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14760,
        ""poem.id"": 14760,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 83: I Never Saw That You Did Painting Need"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14761"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14761,
        ""poem.id"": 14761,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 67: Ah, Wherefore With Infection Should He Live"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14762"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14762,
        ""poem.id"": 14762,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 59: If There Be Nothing New, But That Which Is"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14763"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14763,
        ""poem.id"": 14763,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 92: But Do Thy Worst To Steal Thyself Away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14764"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14764,
        ""poem.id"": 14764,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 56: Sweet Love, Renew Thy Force, Be It Not Said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14765"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14765,
        ""poem.id"": 14765,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 82: I Grant Thou Wert Not Married To My Muse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14766"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14766,
        ""poem.id"": 14766,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets X"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14767"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14767,
        ""poem.id"": 14767,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14768"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14768,
        ""poem.id"": 14768,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cliii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14769"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14769,
        ""poem.id"": 14769,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxi: O, For My Sake Do You With Fortune Chide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14770"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14770,
        ""poem.id"": 14770,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 15:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14771"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14771,
        ""poem.id"": 14771,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 146:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14772"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14772,
        ""poem.id"": 14772,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:47:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 7: Lo, In The Orient When The Gracious Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14773"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14773,
        ""poem.id"": 14773,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 53: What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14774"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14774,
        ""poem.id"": 14774,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14775"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14775,
        ""poem.id"": 14775,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 74: But Be Contented When That Fell Arrest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14776"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14776,
        ""poem.id"": 14776,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14777"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14777,
        ""poem.id"": 14777,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cli"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14778"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14778,
        ""poem.id"": 14778,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 77: Thy Glass Will Show Thee How Thy Beauties Wear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14779"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14779,
        ""poem.id"": 14779,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 24: “mine Eye Hath Played The Painter And Hath Stelled…”"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14780"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14780,
        ""poem.id"": 14780,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 44: If The Dull Substance Of My Flesh Were Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14781"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14781,
        ""poem.id"": 14781,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 80: O, How I Faint When I Of You Do Write"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14782"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14782,
        ""poem.id"": 14782,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 14: “not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck…”"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14783"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14783,
        ""poem.id"": 14783,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 62: Sin Of Self-Love Possesseth All Mine Eye"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14784"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14784,
        ""poem.id"": 14784,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:48:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14785"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14785,
        ""poem.id"": 14785,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14786"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14786,
        ""poem.id"": 14786,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 45: The Other Two, Slight Air And Purging Fire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14787"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14787,
        ""poem.id"": 14787,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Civ"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14788"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14788,
        ""poem.id"": 14788,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxlvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14789"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14789,
        ""poem.id"": 14789,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 48: How Careful Was I, When I Took My Way"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14790"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14790,
        ""poem.id"": 14790,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Twelve O'Clock - Fairy Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14791"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14791,
        ""poem.id"": 14791,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14792"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14792,
        ""poem.id"": 14792,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 70: That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14793"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14793,
        ""poem.id"": 14793,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 26: Lord Of My Love, To Whom In Vassalage…"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14794"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14794,
        ""poem.id"": 14794,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cx"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14795"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14795,
        ""poem.id"": 14795,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 32: If Thou Survive My Well-Contented Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14796"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14796,
        ""poem.id"": 14796,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:49:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 38: How Can My Muse Want Subject To Invent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14797"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14797,
        ""poem.id"": 14797,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxli"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14798"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14798,
        ""poem.id"": 14798,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Cxvi: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14799"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14799,
        ""poem.id"": 14799,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 6: Then Let Not Winter's Ragged Hand Deface"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14800"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14800,
        ""poem.id"": 14800,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14801"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14801,
        ""poem.id"": 14801,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14802"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14802,
        ""poem.id"": 14802,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14803"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14803,
        ""poem.id"": 14803,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 81: Or I Shall Live Your Epitaph To Make"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14804"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14804,
        ""poem.id"": 14804,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ciii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14805"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14805,
        ""poem.id"": 14805,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxlii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14806"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14806,
        ""poem.id"": 14806,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 36: Let Me Confess That We Two Must Be Twain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14807"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14807,
        ""poem.id"": 14807,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxliii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14808"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14808,
        ""poem.id"": 14808,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 107:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14809"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14809,
        ""poem.id"": 14809,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 135: Whoever Hath Her Wish, Thou Hast Thy Will"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14810"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14810,
        ""poem.id"": 14810,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:50:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14811"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14811,
        ""poem.id"": 14811,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 51: Thus Can My Love Excuse The Slow Offence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14812"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14812,
        ""poem.id"": 14812,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14813"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14813,
        ""poem.id"": 14813,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 63: Against My Love Shall Be, As I Am Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14814"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14814,
        ""poem.id"": 14814,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 34: Why Didst Thou Promise Such A Beauteous Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14815"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14815,
        ""poem.id"": 14815,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cvii: Not Mine Own Fears, Nor The Prophetic Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14816"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14816,
        ""poem.id"": 14816,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 76: Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14817"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14817,
        ""poem.id"": 14817,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14818"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14818,
        ""poem.id"": 14818,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 78: So Oft Have I Invoked Thee For My Muse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14819"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14819,
        ""poem.id"": 14819,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cviii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14820"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14820,
        ""poem.id"": 14820,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxlvi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14821"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14821,
        ""poem.id"": 14821,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14822"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14822,
        ""poem.id"": 14822,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14823"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14823,
        ""poem.id"": 14823,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 5: Those Hours, That With Gentle Work Did Frame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14824"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14824,
        ""poem.id"": 14824,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:51:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 37: As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14825"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14825,
        ""poem.id"": 14825,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxlv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14826"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14826,
        ""poem.id"": 14826,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 9: Is It For Fear To Wet A Widow's Eye"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14827"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14827,
        ""poem.id"": 14827,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 39: O, How Thy Worth With Manners May I Sing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14828"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14828,
        ""poem.id"": 14828,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 85: My Tongue-Tied Muse In Manners Holds Her Still"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14829"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14829,
        ""poem.id"": 14829,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 134: So, Now I Have Confessed That He Is Thine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14830"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14830,
        ""poem.id"": 14830,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 54: O, How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14831"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14831,
        ""poem.id"": 14831,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14832"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14832,
        ""poem.id"": 14832,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 52: So Am I As The Rich Whose BlessÈD Key"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14833"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14833,
        ""poem.id"": 14833,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 98: From You Have I Been Absent In The Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14834"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14834,
        ""poem.id"": 14834,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 46: Mine Eye And Heart Are At A Mortal War"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14835"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14835,
        ""poem.id"": 14835,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 99: The Forward Violet Thus Did I Chide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14836"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14836,
        ""poem.id"": 14836,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 4: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14837"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14837,
        ""poem.id"": 14837,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:52:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ci"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14838"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14838,
        ""poem.id"": 14838,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cliv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14839"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14839,
        ""poem.id"": 14839,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet C"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14840"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14840,
        ""poem.id"": 14840,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14841"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14841,
        ""poem.id"": 14841,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 24: Mine Eye Hath Played The Painter And Hath Stelled"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14842"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14842,
        ""poem.id"": 14842,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 79: Whilst I Alone Did Call Upon Thy Aid"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14843"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14843,
        ""poem.id"": 14843,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 86: Was It The Proud Full Sail Of His Great Verse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14844"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14844,
        ""poem.id"": 14844,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 145:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14845"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14845,
        ""poem.id"": 14845,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 47: Betwixt Mine Eye And Heart A League Is Took"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14846"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14846,
        ""poem.id"": 14846,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 58: That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14847"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14847,
        ""poem.id"": 14847,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 139: O, Call Not Me To Justify The Wrong"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14848"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14848,
        ""poem.id"": 14848,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14849"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14849,
        ""poem.id"": 14849,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 35: No More Be Grieved At That Which Thou Hast Done"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14850"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14850,
        ""poem.id"": 14850,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 89: Say That Thou Didst Forsake Me For Some Fault"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14851"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14851,
        ""poem.id"": 14851,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 137: Thou Blind Fool, Love, What Dost Thou To Mine Eyes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14852"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14852,
        ""poem.id"": 14852,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 43: When Most I Wink, Then Do Mine Eyes Best See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14853"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14853,
        ""poem.id"": 14853,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:53:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 22: My Glass Shall Not Persuade Me I Am Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14854"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14854,
        ""poem.id"": 14854,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 65: Since Brass, Nor Stone, Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14855"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14855,
        ""poem.id"": 14855,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 21: So Is It Not With Me As With That Muse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14856"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14856,
        ""poem.id"": 14856,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 136: If Thy Soul Check Thee That I Come So Near"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14857"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14857,
        ""poem.id"": 14857,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 55: Not Marble, Nor The Gilded Monuments"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14858"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14858,
        ""poem.id"": 14858,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 97: How Like A Winter Hath My Absence Been"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14859"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14859,
        ""poem.id"": 14859,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xviii: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14860"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14860,
        ""poem.id"": 14860,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 96: Some Say Thy Fault Is Youth, Some Wantonness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14861"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14861,
        ""poem.id"": 14861,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 131: Thou Art As Tyrannous, So As Thou Art"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14862"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14862,
        ""poem.id"": 14862,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 33: Full Many A Glorious Morning Have I Seen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14863"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14863,
        ""poem.id"": 14863,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 91: Some Glory In Their Birth, Some In Their Skill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14864"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14864,
        ""poem.id"": 14864,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 14: Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14865"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14865,
        ""poem.id"": 14865,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:54:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 41: Those Pretty Wrongs That Liberty Commits"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14866"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14866,
        ""poem.id"": 14866,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 125: Were'T Aught To Me I Bore The Canopy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14867"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14867,
        ""poem.id"": 14867,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 42: That Thou Hast Her, It Is Not All My Grief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14868"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14868,
        ""poem.id"": 14868,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 121:Tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile Esteemed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14869"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14869,
        ""poem.id"": 14869,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 64: When I Have Seen By Time's Fell Hand Defaced"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14870"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14870,
        ""poem.id"": 14870,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 13: O, That You Were Your Self! But, Love, You Are"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14871"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14871,
        ""poem.id"": 14871,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 122: Thy Gift, Thy Tables, Are Within My Brain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14872"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14872,
        ""poem.id"": 14872,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 93: So Shall I Live, Supposing Thou Art True"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14873"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14873,
        ""poem.id"": 14873,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 150: O From What Power Hast Thou This Powerful Might"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14874"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14874,
        ""poem.id"": 14874,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Phoenix And The Turtle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14875"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14875,
        ""poem.id"": 14875,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 88: When Thou Shalt Be Disposed To Set Me Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14876"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14876,
        ""poem.id"": 14876,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 133: Beshrew That Heart That Makes My Heart To Groan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14877"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14877,
        ""poem.id"": 14877,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 148: O Me! What Eyes Hath Love Put In My Head"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14878"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14878,
        ""poem.id"": 14878,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 149: Canst Thou, O Cruel, Say I Love Thee Not"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14879"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14879,
        ""poem.id"": 14879,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:55:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 90: Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt; If Ever, Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14880"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14880,
        ""poem.id"": 14880,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnets Xviii: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14881"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14881,
        ""poem.id"": 14881,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 95: How Sweet And Lovely Dost Thou Make The Shame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14882"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14882,
        ""poem.id"": 14882,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 154: The Little Love-God Lying Once Asleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14883"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14883,
        ""poem.id"": 14883,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 140: Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel; Do Not Press"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14884"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14884,
        ""poem.id"": 14884,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 143: Lo, As A Careful Huswife Runs To Catch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14885"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14885,
        ""poem.id"": 14885,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 49: Against That Time, If Ever That Time Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14886"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14886,
        ""poem.id"": 14886,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14887"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14887,
        ""poem.id"": 14887,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 126: O Thou, My Lovely Boy, Who In Thy Power"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14888"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14888,
        ""poem.id"": 14888,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now, My Co-Mates And Brothers In Exile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14889"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14889,
        ""poem.id"": 14889,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 16: But Wherefore Do Not You A Mightier Way"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14890"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14890,
        ""poem.id"": 14890,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought (Sonnet 30)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14891"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14891,
        ""poem.id"": 14891,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:56:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 2: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14892"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14892,
        ""poem.id"": 14892,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Take, O Take Those Lips Away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14893"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14893,
        ""poem.id"": 14893,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 107: Not Mine Own Fears, Nor The Prophetic Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14894"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14894,
        ""poem.id"": 14894,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Blossom"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14895"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14895,
        ""poem.id"": 14895,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 73: That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14896"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14896,
        ""poem.id"": 14896,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 11: As Fast As Thou Shalt Wane, So Fast Thou Grow'st"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14897"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14897,
        ""poem.id"": 14897,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 120: That You Were Once Unkind Befriends Me Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14898"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14898,
        ""poem.id"": 14898,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 108: What's In The Brain That Ink May Character"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14899"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14899,
        ""poem.id"": 14899,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 115: Those Lines That I Before Have Writ Do Lie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14900"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14900,
        ""poem.id"": 14900,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 118: Like As To Make Our Appetite More Keen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14901"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14901,
        ""poem.id"": 14901,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 152: In Loving Thee Thou Know'st I Am Forsworn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14902"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14902,
        ""poem.id"": 14902,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 146: Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14903"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14903,
        ""poem.id"": 14903,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:57:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 111: O, For My Sake Do You With Fortune Chide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14904"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14904,
        ""poem.id"": 14904,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 94: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14905"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14905,
        ""poem.id"": 14905,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 8: Music To Hear, Why Hear'st Thou Music Sadly?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14906"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14906,
        ""poem.id"": 14906,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 60: Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14907"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14907,
        ""poem.id"": 14907,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 114: Or Whether Doth My Mind, Being Crowned With You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14908"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14908,
        ""poem.id"": 14908,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 31: Thy Bosom Is EndearÈD With All Hearts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14909"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14909,
        ""poem.id"": 14909,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 57: Being Your Slave, What Should I Do But Tend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14910"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14910,
        ""poem.id"": 14910,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 112: Your Love And Pity Doth Th' Impression Fill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14913"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14913,
        ""poem.id"": 14913,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When That I Was And A Little Tiny Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14914"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14914,
        ""poem.id"": 14914,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 50: How Heavy Do I Journey On The Way"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14916"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14916,
        ""poem.id"": 14916,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 153: Cupid Laid By His Brand And Fell Asleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14917"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14917,
        ""poem.id"": 14917,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 132: Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14918"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14918,
        ""poem.id"": 14918,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 27: Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14919"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14919,
        ""poem.id"": 14919,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 119: What Potions Have I Drunk Of Siren Tears"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14920"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14920,
        ""poem.id"": 14920,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:58:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Cxvi: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14921"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14921,
        ""poem.id"": 14921,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 75: So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14922"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14922,
        ""poem.id"": 14922,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 25: Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14923"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14923,
        ""poem.id"": 14923,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 87: Farewell! Thou Art Too Dear For My Possessing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14924"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14924,
        ""poem.id"": 14924,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 71: No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14925"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14925,
        ""poem.id"": 14925,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 151: Love Is Too Young To Know What Conscience Is"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14926"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14926,
        ""poem.id"": 14926,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 28: How Can I Then Return In Happy Plight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14927"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14927,
        ""poem.id"": 14927,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 147: My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14928"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14928,
        ""poem.id"": 14928,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 15: When I Consider Every Thing That Grows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14929"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14929,
        ""poem.id"": 14929,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 104: To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14930"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14930,
        ""poem.id"": 14930,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Witches Chant (From Macbeth)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14931"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14931,
        ""poem.id"": 14931,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 113: Since I Left You, Mine Eye Is In My Mind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14932"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14932,
        ""poem.id"": 14932,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 10: For Shame, Deny That Thou Bear'st Love To Any"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14933"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14933,
        ""poem.id"": 14933,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 110: Alas, 'Tis True, I Have Gone Here And There"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14934"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14934,
        ""poem.id"": 14934,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 01:59:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold (Sonnet 73)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14935"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14935,
        ""poem.id"": 14935,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spring And Winter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14936"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14936,
        ""poem.id"": 14936,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 17: Who Will Believe My Verse In Time To Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14937"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14937,
        ""poem.id"": 14937,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 23: As An Unperfect Actor On The Stage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14938"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14938,
        ""poem.id"": 14938,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 142: Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14939"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14939,
        ""poem.id"": 14939,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 101: O Truant Muse, What Shall Be Thy Amends"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14940"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14940,
        ""poem.id"": 14940,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 144: Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14941"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14941,
        ""poem.id"": 14941,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14942"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14942,
        ""poem.id"": 14942,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 129: Th' Expense Of Spirit In A Waste Of Shame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14943"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14943,
        ""poem.id"": 14943,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 105: Let Not My Love Be Called Idolatry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14944"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14944,
        ""poem.id"": 14944,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 12: When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14945"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14945,
        ""poem.id"": 14945,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:00:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 103: Alack, What Poverty My Muse Brings Forth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14946"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14946,
        ""poem.id"": 14946,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 100: Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14947"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14947,
        ""poem.id"": 14947,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonet Liv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14948"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14948,
        ""poem.id"": 14948,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Be, Or Not To Be (Hamlet, Act Iii, Scene I)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14949"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14949,
        ""poem.id"": 14949,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 106: When In The Chronicle Of Wasted Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14950"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14950,
        ""poem.id"": 14950,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Never Say That I Was False Of Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14952"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14952,
        ""poem.id"": 14952,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 40: Take All My Loves, My Love, Yea, Take Them All"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14953"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14953,
        ""poem.id"": 14953,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 109: O, Never Say That I Was False Of Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14954"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14954,
        ""poem.id"": 14954,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 102: My Love Is Strengthened, Though More Weak In Seeming"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14956"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14956,
        ""poem.id"": 14956,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 20: A Woman's Face With Nature's Own Hand Painted"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14957"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14957,
        ""poem.id"": 14957,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 1: From Fairest Creatures We Desire Increase"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14958"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14958,
        ""poem.id"": 14958,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 30: When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14959"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14959,
        ""poem.id"": 14959,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not Marble Nor The Guilded Monuments (Sonnet 55)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14960"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14960,
        ""poem.id"": 14960,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 128: How Oft, When Thou, My Music, Music Play'st"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14961"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14961,
        ""poem.id"": 14961,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:01:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Orpheus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14962"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14962,
        ""poem.id"": 14962,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Silvia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14963"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14963,
        ""poem.id"": 14963,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Under The Greenwood Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14964"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14964,
        ""poem.id"": 14964,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes (Sonnet 29)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14965"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14965,
        ""poem.id"": 14965,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not From The Stars Do I My Judgment Pluck (Sonnet 14)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14966"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14966,
        ""poem.id"": 14966,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Quality Of Mercy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14967"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14967,
        ""poem.id"": 14967,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fairy Land Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14968"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14968,
        ""poem.id"": 14968,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Juliet's Soliloquy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Farewell!--God knows when we shall meet again.I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veinsThat almost freezes up the heat of life:I'll call them back again to comfort me;--Nurse!--What should she do here?My dismal scene I needs must act alone.--Come, vial.--What if this mixture do not work at all?Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning?--No, No!--this shall forbid it:--lie thou there.--What if it be a poison, which the friarSubtly hath minister'd to have me dead,Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,Because he married me before to Romeo?I fear it is: and yet methinks it should not,For he hath still been tried a holy man:--I will not entertain so bad a thought.--How if, when I am laid into the tomb,I wake before the time that RomeoCome to redeem me? there's a fearful point!Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?Or, if I live, is it not very likeThe horrible conceit of death and night,Together with the terror of the place,--As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,Where, for this many hundred years, the bonesOf all my buried ancestors are pack'd;Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,At some hours in the night spirits resort;--Alack, alack, is it not like that I,So early waking,--what with loathsome smells,And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,That living mortals, hearing them, run mad;--O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,Environed with all these hideous fears?And madly play with my forefathers' joints?And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?--O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghostSeeking out Romeo, that did spit his bodyUpon a rapier's point:--stay, Tybalt, stay!--Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14969"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14969,
        ""poem.id"": 14969,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sigh No More"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14970"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14970,
        ""poem.id"": 14970,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was A Lover And His Lass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14971"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14971,
        ""poem.id"": 14971,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14972"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14972,
        ""poem.id"": 14972,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:02:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dirge Of The Three Queens"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14973"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14973,
        ""poem.id"": 14973,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fairy Land Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14974"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14974,
        ""poem.id"": 14974,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14975"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14975,
        ""poem.id"": 14975,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fairy Land I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14976"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14976,
        ""poem.id"": 14976,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 138: When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14977"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14977,
        ""poem.id"": 14977,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Venus And Adonis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud; The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder; The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth Controlling what he was controlled with.His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging maneUpon his compass'd crest now stand on end;His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,As from a furnace, vapours doth he send: His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire.Sometime her trots, as if he told the steps,With gentle majesty and modest pride;Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,As who should say, 'Lo! thus my strength is tried; And this I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'What recketh he his rider's angry stir,His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say?'What cares he now for curb of pricking spur?For rich caparisons or trapping gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.Look, when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,His art with nature's workmanship at strife,As if the dead the living should exceed; So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace and boneRound-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;To bid the wind a race he now prepares,And whe'r he run or fly they know not whether; For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;She answers him as if she knew his mind;Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels.Then, like a melancholy malcontent,He vails his tail that, like a falling plumeCool shadow to his melting buttock lent:He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.His testy master goeth about to take him;When lo! the unback'd breeder, full of fear,Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,With her the horse, and left Adonis there. As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them. I prophesy they death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.\"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,Or at the roe which no encounter dare: Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on they well-breath'd horse keep with they hounds.\"And when thou hast on food the purblind hare,Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troublesHow he outruns with winds, and with what careHe cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: The many musits through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.\"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer; Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:\"For there his smell with other being mingled,The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies.\"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,To hearken if his foes pursue him still:Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.\"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretchTurn, and return, indenting with the way;Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never reliev'd by any.\"Lie quietly, and hear a little more;Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize, Applying this to that, and so to so; For love can comment upon every woe.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14978"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14978,
        ""poem.id"": 14978,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Winter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14979"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14979,
        ""poem.id"": 14979,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dirge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14980"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14980,
        ""poem.id"": 14980,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Aubade"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14981"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14981,
        ""poem.id"": 14981,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet 116: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14982"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14982,
        ""poem.id"": 14982,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Madrigal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14983"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14983,
        ""poem.id"": 14983,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bridal Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14984"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14984,
        ""poem.id"": 14984,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Full Fathom Five"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14985"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14985,
        ""poem.id"": 14985,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:03:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14986"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14986,
        ""poem.id"": 14986,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hark! Hark! The Lark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14987"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14987,
        ""poem.id"": 14987,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14988"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14988,
        ""poem.id"": 14988,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Lover's Complaint"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/18/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sistering vale, My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale; Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of beauty spent and done: Time had not scythed all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage, Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age. Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laundering the silken figures in the brine That season'd woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low. Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride, As they did battery to the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon their gazes lend To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd, The mind and sight distractedly commix'd. Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, And true to bondage would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw, Upon whose weeping margent she was set; Like usury, applying wet to wet, Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall Where want cries some, but where excess begs all. Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood; Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood, With sleided silk feat and affectedly Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy. These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes, And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear: Cried 'O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witness dost thou bear! Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!' This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents. A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh-- Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The swiftest hours, observed as they flew-- Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew, And, privileged by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. So slides he down upon his grained bat, And comely-distant sits he by her side; When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to divide: If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, 'Tis promised in the charity of age. 'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not tell your judgment I am old; Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power: I might as yet have been a spreading flower, Fresh to myself, If I had self-applied Love to myself and to no love beside. 'But, woe is me! too early I attended A youthful suit--it was to gain my grace-- Of one by nature's outwards so commended, That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face: Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place; And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new lodged and newly deified. 'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls; And every light occasion of the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find: Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind, For on his visage was in little drawn What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. 'Small show of man was yet upon his chin; His phoenix down began but to appear Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear: Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear; And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. 'His qualities were beauteous as his form, For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free; Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm As oft 'twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be. His rudeness so with his authorized youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. 'Well could he ride, and often men would say 'That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!' And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed. 'But quickly on this side the verdict went: His real habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament, Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case: All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, Came for additions; yet their purposed trim Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him. 'So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kinds of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep: To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will: 'That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal duty, following where he haunted: Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted; And dialogued for him what he would say, Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey. 'Many there were that did his picture get, To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind; Like fools that in th' imagination set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd; And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them: 'So many have, that never touch'd his hand, Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart. My woeful self, that did in freedom stand, And was my own fee-simple, not in part, What with his art in youth, and youth in art, Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower. 'Yet did I not, as some my equals did, Demand of him, nor being desired yielded; Finding myself in honour so forbid, With safest distance I mine honour shielded: Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. 'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent The destined ill she must herself assay? Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content, To put the by-past perils in her way? Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay; For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wits more keen. 'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others' proof; To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgment stand aloof! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though Reason weep, and cry, 'It is thy last.' 'For further I could say 'This man's untrue,' And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew, Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; Thought characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. 'And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he gan besiege me: 'Gentle maid, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of my holy vows afraid: That's to ye sworn to none was ever said; For feasts of love I have been call'd unto, Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo. ''All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind; Love made them not: with acture they may be, Where neither party is nor true nor kind: They sought their shame that so their shame did find; And so much less of shame in me remains, By how much of me their reproach contains. ''Among the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd, Or my affection put to the smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever charm'd: Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd; Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy. ''Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood; Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood; Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly. ''And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously impleach'd, I have received from many a several fair, Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd, With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd, And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality. ''The diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invised properties did tend; The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With objects manifold: each several stone, With wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan. ''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensived and subdued desires the tender, Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render, That is, to you, my origin and ender; For these, of force, must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you enpatron me. ''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand, Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise; What me your minister, for you obeys, Works under you; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums. ''Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified, of holiest note; Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, To spend her living in eternal love. ''But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave The thing we have not, mastering what not strives, Playing the place which did no form receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves? She that her fame so to herself contrives, The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence valiant, not her might. ''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true: The accident which brought me to her eye Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister fly: Religious love put out Religion's eye: Not to be tempted, would she be immured, And now, to tempt, all liberty procured. ''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among: I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong, Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast. ''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace, Believed her eyes when they to assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place: O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all, and all things else are thine. ''When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst shame, And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. ''Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine; And supplicant their sighs to you extend, To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath That shall prefer and undertake my troth.' 'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flow'd apace: O, how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue encloses. 'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath. 'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolved my reason into tears; There my white stole of chastity I daff'd, Shook off my sober guards and civil fears; Appear to him, as he to me appears, All melting; though our drops this difference bore, His poison'd me, and mine did him restore. 'In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either's aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows. 'That not a heart which in his level came Could 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim: Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury, He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity. 'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd; That th' unexperient gave the tempter place, Which like a cherubin above them hover'd. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd? Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake. 'O, that infected moisture of his eye, O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd, O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd, O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd, And new pervert a reconciled maid!'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14989"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14989,
        ""poem.id"": 14989,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fear No More"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14990"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14990,
        ""poem.id"": 14990,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming? (Twelfth Night, Act Ii, Scene Iii)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14991"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14991,
        ""poem.id"": 14991,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? (Sonnet 18)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14992"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14992,
        ""poem.id"": 14992,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Fairy Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    },
    ""14993"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 14993,
        ""poem.id"": 14993,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All The World's A Stage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Shakespeare""
    }
}"
4,"2018-02-28 20:20:42","Langston Hughes","{
    ""121"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 121,
        ""poem.id"": 121,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You and your whole race"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/31/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""You and your whole race.Look down upon the town in which you liveAnd be ashamed.Look down upon white folks And upon yourselves And be ashamedThat such supine poverty exists there,That such stupid ignorance breeds children thereBehind such humble shelters of despair—That you yourselves have not the sense to careNor the manhood to stand up and sayI dare you to come one step nearer, evil world,With your hands of greed seeking to touch my throat, I dare you to come one step nearer me: When you can say that you will be free!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""122"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 122,
        ""poem.id"": 122,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thanksgiving Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When the night winds whistle through the trees and blow the crisp brown leaves a-crackling down,When the autumn moon is big and yellow-orange and round,When old Jack Frost is sparkling on the ground, It's Thanksgiving Time!When the pantry jars are full of mince-meat and the shelves are laden with sweet spices for a cake,When the butcher man sends up a turkey nice and fat to bake,When the stores are crammed with everything ingenious cooks can make, It's Thanksgiving Time!When the gales of coming winter outside your window howl,When the air is sharp and cheery so it drives away your scowl, When one's appetite craves turkey and will have no other fowl, It's Thanksgiving Time!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""123"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 123,
        ""poem.id"": 123,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Warning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Negroes,Sweet and docile,Meek, humble and kind:Beware the dayThey change their mind!WindIn the cotton fields,Gentle Breeze:Beware the hourIt uproots trees!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""124"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 124,
        ""poem.id"": 124,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Feet o' Jesus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/23/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""At the feet o' Jesus,Sorrow like a sea.Lordy, let yo' mercyCome driftin' down on me.At the feet o' JesusAt yo' feet I stand.O, ma little Jesus,Please reach out yo' hand."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""125"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 125,
        ""poem.id"": 125,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Park Bench"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two.I beg a dime for dinner- You got a butler and maid. But I'm wakin' up! Say, ain't you afraidThat I might, just maybe, In a year or two, Move on over To Park Avenue?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""126"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 126,
        ""poem.id"": 126,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The City"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/22/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In the morning the citySpreads its wingsMaking a songIn stone that sings.In the evening the cityGoes to bedHanging lights Above its head."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""127"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 127,
        ""poem.id"": 127,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:51:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dying Beast"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/19/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Sensing death, The buzzards gather — Noting the last struggle Of flesh under weather, Noting the last glance Of agonized eye At passing wind And boundless sky."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""128"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 128,
        ""poem.id"": 128,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song For A Dark Girl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Way Down South in Dixie(Break the heart of me)They hung my black young loverTo a cross roads tree.Way Down South in Dixie(Bruised body high in air)I asked the white Lord JesusWhat was the use of prayer.Way Down South in Dixie(Break the heart of me)Love is a naked shadowOn a gnarled and naked tree."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""129"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 129,
        ""poem.id"": 129,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""God"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/7/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I am God—Without one friend,Alone in my purityWorld without end.Below me young loversTread the sweet ground—But I am God—I cannot come down.Spring!Life is love!Love is life only!Better to be humanThan God—and lonely."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""130"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 130,
        ""poem.id"": 130,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kids Who Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""This is for the kids who die,Black and white,For kids will die certainly.The old and rich will live on awhile,As always,Eating blood and gold,Letting kids die.Kids will die in the swamps of MississippiOrganizing sharecroppersKids will die in the streets of ChicagoOrganizing workersKids will die in the orange groves of CaliforniaTelling others to get togetherWhites and Filipinos,Negroes and Mexicans,All kinds of kids will dieWho don't believe in lies, and bribes, and contentmentAnd a lousy peace.Of course, the wise and the learnedWho pen editorials in the papers,And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their namesWhite and black,Who make surveys and write booksWill live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,And the sleazy courts,And the bribe-reaching police,And the blood-loving generals,And the money-loving preachersWill all raise their hands against the kids who die,Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bulletsTo frighten the people—For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—And the old and rich don't want the peopleTo taste the iron of the kids who die,Don't want the people to get wise to their own power,To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get togetherListen, kids who die—Maybe, now, there will be no monument for youExcept in our heartsMaybe your bodies'll be lost in a swampOr a prison grave, or the potter's field,Or the rivers where you're drowned like LeibknechtBut the day will come—You are sure yourselves that it is coming—When the marching feet of the massesWill raise for you a living monument of love,And joy, and laughter,And black hands and white hands clasped as one,And a song that reaches the sky—The song of the life triumphantThrough the kids who die."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""131"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 131,
        ""poem.id"": 131,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pierrot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""132"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 132,
        ""poem.id"": 132,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prize Fighter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""133"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 133,
        ""poem.id"": 133,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Question [1]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""134"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 134,
        ""poem.id"": 134,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Madam And The Census Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""135"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 135,
        ""poem.id"": 135,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Madam's Past History"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""136"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 136,
        ""poem.id"": 136,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sick Room"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""137"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 137,
        ""poem.id"": 137,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Certain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""138"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 138,
        ""poem.id"": 138,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sylvester’s Dying Bed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""139"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 139,
        ""poem.id"": 139,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Personal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""140"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 140,
        ""poem.id"": 140,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:52:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lincoln Monument: Washington"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""141"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 141,
        ""poem.id"": 141,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Sue Wears Red"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""142"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 142,
        ""poem.id"": 142,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Morning After"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""143"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 143,
        ""poem.id"": 143,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Me And The Mule"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""144"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 144,
        ""poem.id"": 144,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wealth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""145"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 145,
        ""poem.id"": 145,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lonesome Place"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""146"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 146,
        ""poem.id"": 146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Genius Child"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/23/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""147"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 147,
        ""poem.id"": 147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Songs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""148"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 148,
        ""poem.id"": 148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Negro Dancers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""149"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 149,
        ""poem.id"": 149,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Snake"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""150"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 150,
        ""poem.id"": 150,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Trumpet Player"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""151"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 151,
        ""poem.id"": 151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Madam And The Rent Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""152"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 152,
        ""poem.id"": 152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:53:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wisdom And War"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""153"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 153,
        ""poem.id"": 153,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fire-Caught"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""154"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 154,
        ""poem.id"": 154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Catch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""155"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 155,
        ""poem.id"": 155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Selma"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""156"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 156,
        ""poem.id"": 156,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Motto"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""157"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 157,
        ""poem.id"": 157,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dream Boogie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""158"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 158,
        ""poem.id"": 158,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""159"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 159,
        ""poem.id"": 159,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Silence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""160"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 160,
        ""poem.id"": 160,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brass Spittoons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15034"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15034,
        ""poem.id"": 15034,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of The Landlord"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15035"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15035,
        ""poem.id"": 15035,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Deceased"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15036"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15036,
        ""poem.id"": 15036,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Helen Keller"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15037"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15037,
        ""poem.id"": 15037,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Demand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15038"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15038,
        ""poem.id"": 15038,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Final Curve"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15039"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15039,
        ""poem.id"": 15039,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:04:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Continue To Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15040"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15040,
        ""poem.id"": 15040,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15041"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15041,
        ""poem.id"": 15041,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Time Of Silver Rain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15042"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15042,
        ""poem.id"": 15042,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Dream A World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15043"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15043,
        ""poem.id"": 15043,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bouquet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15044"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15044,
        ""poem.id"": 15044,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ardella"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15045"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15045,
        ""poem.id"": 15045,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Easy Boogie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15046"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15046,
        ""poem.id"": 15046,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bound No’th Blues"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15047"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15047,
        ""poem.id"": 15047,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Enemy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15048"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15048,
        ""poem.id"": 15048,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love Song For Lucinda"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15049"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15049,
        ""poem.id"": 15049,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Madam And The Phone Bill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15050"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15050,
        ""poem.id"": 15050,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Madam And Her Madam"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15051"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15051,
        ""poem.id"": 15051,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sea Calm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15052"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15052,
        ""poem.id"": 15052,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Will V-Day Be Me-Day Too?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Over There,World War II. Dear Fellow Americans,I write this letterHoping times will be betterWhen this warIs through.I'm a Tan-skinned YankDriving a tank.I ask, WILL V-DAYBE ME-DAY, TOO?I wear a U. S. uniform.I've done the enemy much harm,I've driven backThe Germans and the Japs,From Burma to the Rhine.On every battle line,I've dropped defeatInto the Fascists' laps.I am a Negro AmericanOut to defend my landArmy, Navy, Air Corps--I am there.I take munitions through,I fight--or stevedore, too.I face death the same as you do Everywhere.I've seen my buddy lyingWhere he fell.I've watched him dyingI promised him that I would tryTo make our land a landWhere his son could be a man--And there'd be no Jim Crow birdsLeft in our sky.So this is what I want to know:When we see Victory's glow,Will you still let old Jim CrowHold me back?When all those foreign folks who've waited--Italians, Chinese, Danes--are liberated.Will I still be ill-fatedBecause I'm black?Here in my own, my native land,Will the Jim Crow laws still stand?Will Dixie lynch me stillWhen I return?Or will you comrades in armsFrom the factories and the farms,Have learned what this warWas fought for us to learn?When I take off my uniform,Will I be safe from harm--Or will you do meAs the Germans did the Jews?When I've helped this world to save,Shall I still be color's slave?Or will Victory changeYour antiquated views?You can't say I didn't fightTo smash the Fascists' might.You can't say I wasn't with youin each battle.As a soldier, and a friend.When this war comes to an end,Will you herd me in a Jim Crow carLike cattle?Or will you stand up like a manAt home and take your standFor Democracy?That's all I ask of you.When we lay the guns awayTo celebrateOur Victory DayWILL V-DAY BE ME-DAY, TOO?That's what I want to know.Sincerely,GI Joe."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15053"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15053,
        ""poem.id"": 15053,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:05:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oppression"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15054"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15054,
        ""poem.id"": 15054,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Minstrel Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15055"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15055,
        ""poem.id"": 15055,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Walkers With The Dawn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15056"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15056,
        ""poem.id"": 15056,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wake"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15057"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15057,
        ""poem.id"": 15057,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Po' Boy Blues"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15058"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15058,
        ""poem.id"": 15058,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Harlem [dream Deferred]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15059"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15059,
        ""poem.id"": 15059,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Night Funeral In Harlem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15060"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15060,
        ""poem.id"": 15060,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Artina"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/12/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15061"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15061,
        ""poem.id"": 15061,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Acceptance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15062"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15062,
        ""poem.id"": 15062,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jazzonia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15063"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15063,
        ""poem.id"": 15063,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Quiet Girl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15064"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15064,
        ""poem.id"": 15064,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Advertisement For The Waldorf-Astoria"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15065"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15065,
        ""poem.id"": 15065,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Blues"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15066"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15066,
        ""poem.id"": 15066,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Weary Blues"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15067"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15067,
        ""poem.id"": 15067,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:06:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""50-50"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/27/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15068"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15068,
        ""poem.id"": 15068,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Problems"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15069"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15069,
        ""poem.id"": 15069,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Negro Speaks Of Rivers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15070"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15070,
        ""poem.id"": 15070,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Still Here"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""been scarred and battered.My hopes the wind done scattered.Snow has friz me,Sun has baked me,Looks like between 'em they doneTried to make meStop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'- But I don't care! I'm still here!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15071"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15071,
        ""poem.id"": 15071,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ennui"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15072"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15072,
        ""poem.id"": 15072,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Theme For English B"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15073"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15073,
        ""poem.id"": 15073,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Juke Box Love Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15074"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15074,
        ""poem.id"": 15074,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Merry-Go-Round"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15075"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15075,
        ""poem.id"": 15075,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Negro Speaks Of Rivers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15076"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15076,
        ""poem.id"": 15076,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Justice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15077"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15077,
        ""poem.id"": 15077,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cultural Exchange"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In the Quarter of the NegroesWhere the doors are doors of paperDust of dingy atomsBlows a scratchy sound.Amorphous jack-o'-Lanterns caperAnd the wind won't wait for midnightFor fun to blow doors down.By the river and the railroadWith fluid far-off goindBoundaries bind unbindingA whirl of whisteles blowing.No trains or steamboats going--Yet Leontyne's unpacking.In the Quarter of the NegroesWhere the doorknob lets in LiederMore than German ever bore,Her yesterday past grandpa--Not of her own doing--In a pot of collard greensIs gently stewing.Pushcarts fold and unfoldIn a supermarket sea.And we better find out, mama,Where is the colored laundromatSince we move dup to Mount Vernon.In the pot begind the paper doorson the old iron stove what's cooking?What's smelling, Leontyne?Lieder, lovely LiederAnd a leaf of collard green.Lovely Lieder, Leontyne.You know, right at ChristmasThey asked me if my blackness,Would it rub off?I said, Ask your mama.Dreams and nightmares!Nightmares, dreams, oh!Dreaming that the NegroesOf the South have taken over--Voted all the DixiecratsRight out of power--Comes the COLORED HOUR:Martin Luther King is Governor of Georgia,Dr. Rufus Clement his Chief Adviser,A. Philip Randolph the High Grand Worthy.In white pillared mansionsSitting on their wide verandas,Wealthy Negroes have white servants,White sharecroppers work the black plantations,And colored children have white mammies:Mammy FaubusMammy EastlandMammy WallaceDear, dear darling old white mammies--Sometimes even buried with our family.Dear oldMammy Faubus!Culture, they say, is a two-way street:Hand me my mint julep, mammny.Hurry up!Make haste!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15078"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15078,
        ""poem.id"": 15078,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Freedom's Plow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When a man starts out with nothing,When a man starts out with his handsEmpty, but clean,When a man starts to build a world,He starts first with himselfAnd the faith that is in his heart-The strength there,The will there to build.First in the heart is the dream-Then the mind starts seeking a way.His eyes look out on the world,On the great wooded world,On the rich soil of the world,On the rivers of the world.The eyes see there materials for building,See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.Then the hand seeks other hands to help,A community of hands to help-Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,But a community dream.Not my dream alone, but our dream.Not my world alone,But your world and my world,Belonging to all the hands who build.A long time ago, but not too long ago,Ships came from across the seaBringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,Adventurers and booty seekers,Free men and indentured servants,Slave men and slave masters, all new-To a new world, America! With billowing sails the galleons cameBringing men and dreams, women and dreams.In little bands together,Heart reaching out to heart,Hand reaching out to hand,They began to build our land.Some were free handsSeeking a greater freedom,Some were indentured handsHoping to find their freedom,Some were slave handsGuarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,But the word was there always:Freedom.Down into the earth went the plowIn the free hands and the slave hands,In indentured hands and adventurous hands,Turning the rich soil went the plow in many handsThat planted and harvested the food that fedAnd the cotton that clothed America.Clang against the trees went the ax into many handsThat hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hullsThat moved and transported America.Crack went the whips that drove the horsesAcross the plains of America.Free hands and slave hands,Indentured hands, adventurous hands,White hands and black handsHeld the plow handles,Ax handles, hammer handles,Launched the boats and whipped the horsesThat fed and housed and moved America.Thus together through labor,All these hands made America.Labor! Out of labor came villagesAnd the towns that grew cities.Labor! Out of labor came the rowboatsAnd the sailboats and the steamboats,Came the wagons, and the coaches,Covered wagons, stage coaches,Out of labor came the factories,Came the foundries, came the railroads.Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,Shipped the wide world over:Out of labor-white hands and black hands-Came the dream, the strength, the will,And the way to build America.Now it is Me here, and You there.Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,Seattle, New Orleans,Boston and El Paso-Now it’s the U.S.A.A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL- ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATORWITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS- AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTYAND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,And silently took for grantedThat what he said was also meant for them.It was a long time ago,But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGHTO GOVERN ANOTHER MANWITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.There were slaves then, too,But in their hearts the slaves knewWhat he said must be meant for every human being-Else it had no meaning for anyone.Then a man said:BETTER TO DIE FREETHAN TO LIVE SLAVESHe was a colored man who had been a slaveBut had run away to freedom.And the slaves knewWhat Frederick Douglass said was true.With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.John Brown was hung.Before the Civil War, days were dark,And nobody knew for sureWhen freedom would triumph'Or if it would,' thought some.But others new it had to triumph.In those dark days of slavery,Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,The slaves made up a song:Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On! That song meant just what it said: Hold On! Freedom will come! Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On! Out of war it came, bloody and terrible! But it came! Some there were, as always,Who doubted that the war would end right,That the slaves would be free,Or that the union would stand,But now we know how it all came out.Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,We know now how it came out.There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.There was a great wooded land,And men united as a nation.America is a dream.The poet says it was promises.The people say it is promises-that will come true.The people do not always say things out loud,Nor write them down on paper.The people often holdGreat thoughts in their deepest heartsAnd sometimes only blunderingly express them,Haltingly and stumblingly say them,And faultily put them into practice.The people do not always understand each other.But there is, somewhere there,Always the trying to understand,And the trying to say,'You are a man. Together we are building our land.'America! Land created in common,Dream nourished in common,Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on! If the house is not yet finished,Don’t be discouraged, builder! If the fight is not yet won,Don’t be weary, soldier! The plan and the pattern is here,Woven from the beginningInto the warp and woof of America:ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGHTO GOVERN ANOTHER MANWITHOUT HIS CONSENT.BETTER DIE FREE,THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.Who said those things? Americans! Who owns those words? America! Who is America? You, me! We are America! To the enemy who would conquer us from without,We say, NO! To the enemy who would divideAnd conquer us from within,We say, NO! FREEDOM! BROTHERHOOD! DEMOCRACY! To all the enemies of these great words:We say, NO! A long time ago,An enslaved people heading toward freedomMade up a song:Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On! The plow plowed a new furrowAcross the field of history.Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.That tree is for everybody,For all America, for all the world.May its branches spread and shelter growUntil all races and all peoples know its shade.KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15079"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15079,
        ""poem.id"": 15079,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:07:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dinner Guest: Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15080"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15080,
        ""poem.id"": 15080,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dream Keeper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15081"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15081,
        ""poem.id"": 15081,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Daybreak In Alabama"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15082"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15082,
        ""poem.id"": 15082,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bad Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15083"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15083,
        ""poem.id"": 15083,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15084"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15084,
        ""poem.id"": 15084,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Suicide's Note"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/12/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15085"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15085,
        ""poem.id"": 15085,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Children's Rhymes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15086"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15086,
        ""poem.id"": 15086,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dream Variations"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15087"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15087,
        ""poem.id"": 15087,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Life Is Fine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15088"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15088,
        ""poem.id"": 15088,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Negro Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Children, I come back today To tell you a story of the long dark way That I had to climb, that I had to know In order that the race might live and grow. Look at my face - dark as the night - Yet shining like the sun with love's true light. I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea Carrying in my body the seed of the free. I am the woman who worked in the field Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield. I am the one who labored as a slave, Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave - Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too. No safety, no love, no respect was I due.Three hundred years in the deepest South: But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth. God put a dream like steel in my soul. Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal. Now, through my children, young and free, I realized the blessing deed to me. I couldn't read then. I couldn't write. I had nothing, back there in the night. Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears, But I kept trudging on through the lonely years. Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun, But I had to keep on till my work was done: I had to keep on! No stopping for me - I was the seed of the coming Free. I nourished the dream that nothing could smother Deep in my breast - the Negro mother. I had only hope then, but now through you, Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true: All you dark children in the world out there, Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair. Remember my years, heavy with sorrow - And make of those years a torch for tomorrow. Make of my pass a road to the light Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night. Lift high my banner out of the dust. Stand like free men supporting my trust. Believe in the right, let none push you back. Remember the whip and the slaver's track. Remember how the strong in struggle and strife Still bar you the way, and deny you life - But march ever forward, breaking down bars. Look ever upward at the sun and the stars. Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers Impel you forever up the great stairs - For I will be with you till no white brother Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15089"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15089,
        ""poem.id"": 15089,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dream Deferred"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15090"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15090,
        ""poem.id"": 15090,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Democracy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15091"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15091,
        ""poem.id"": 15091,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:08:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Let America Be America Again"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Let America be America again.Let it be the dream it used to be.Let it be the pioneer on the plainSeeking a home where he himself is free.(America never was America to me.)Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--Let it be that great strong land of loveWhere never kings connive nor tyrants schemeThat any man be crushed by one above.(It never was America to me.)O, let my land be a land where LibertyIs crowned with no false patriotic wreath,But opportunity is real, and life is free,Equality is in the air we breathe.(There's never been equality for me,Nor freedom in this \"homeland of the free.\")Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.I am the red man driven from the land,I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--And finding only the same old stupid planOf dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.I am the young man, full of strength and hope,Tangled in that ancient endless chainOf profit, power, gain, of grab the land!Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!Of work the men! Of take the pay!Of owning everything for one's own greed!I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.I am the worker sold to the machine.I am the Negro, servant to you all.I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--Hungry yet today despite the dream.Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!I am the man who never got ahead,The poorest worker bartered through the years.Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dreamIn the Old World while still a serf of kings,Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,That even yet its mighty daring singsIn every brick and stone, in every furrow turnedThat's made America the land it has become.O, I'm the man who sailed those early seasIn search of what I meant to be my home--For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,And torn from Black Africa's strand I cameTo build a \"homeland of the free.\"The free?Who said the free? Not me?Surely not me? The millions on relief today?The millions shot down when we strike?The millions who have nothing for our pay?For all the dreams we've dreamedAnd all the songs we've sungAnd all the hopes we've heldAnd all the flags we've hung,The millions who have nothing for our pay--Except the dream that's almost dead today.O, let America be America again--The land that never has been yet--And yet must be--the land where every man is free.The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--Who made America,Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,Must bring back our mighty dream again.Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--The steel of freedom does not stain.From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,We must take back our land again,America!O, yes,I say it plain,America never was America to me,And yet I swear this oath--America will be!Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,We, the people, must redeemThe land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.The mountains and the endless plain--All, all the stretch of these great green states--And make America again!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15092"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15092,
        ""poem.id"": 15092,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cross"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15093"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15093,
        ""poem.id"": 15093,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I, Too"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15094"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15094,
        ""poem.id"": 15094,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""April Rain Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15095"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15095,
        ""poem.id"": 15095,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mother To Son"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15096"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15096,
        ""poem.id"": 15096,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As I Grew Older"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    },
    ""15097"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15097,
        ""poem.id"": 15097,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dreams"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Langston Hughes""
    }
}"
5,"2018-02-28 20:21:19","Pablo Neruda","{
    ""161"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 161,
        ""poem.id"": 161,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Still Another Day: XVII/Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The truth is in the prologue. Death to the romantic fool,to the expert in solitary confinement,I'm the same as the teacher from Colombia,the rotarian from Philadelphia, the merchantfrom Paysandu who save his silverto come here. We all arrive by different streets,by unequal languages, at Silence."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""162"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 162,
        ""poem.id"": 162,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Still Another Day: I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Today is that day, the day that carrieda desperate light that since has died.Don't let the squatters know:let's keep it all between us,day, between your belland my secret.Today is dead winter in the forgotten landthat comes to visit me, with a cross on the mapand a volcano in the snow, to return to me,to return again the waterfallen on the roof of my childhood.Today when the sun began with its shaftsto tell the story, so clear, so old,the slanting rain fell like a sword,the rain my hard heart welcomes.You, my love, still asleep in August,my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geographykiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither,you, vestment of my persistent song,today you are reborn again and with the sky'sblack water confuse me and compel me:I must renew my bones in your kingdom,I must still uncloud my earthly duties."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""163"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 163,
        ""poem.id"": 163,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Ironing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/18/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Poetry is white:it comes from water swathed in drops,it wrinkles and gathers,this planet's skin has to spread out,the sea's whiteness has to be ironed out,and the hands keep moving,the sacred surfaces get smoothed,and things are done this way:the hands make the world every day,fire conjoins with steel,linen, canvas, and cotton arrivefrom the scuffles in the laundries,and from light a dove is born:chastity returns out of the foam."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""164"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 164,
        ""poem.id"": 164,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:54:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epithalamium"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Do you remember whenin winterwe reached the island?The sea raised toward usa crown of cold.On the walls the climbing vinesmurmured lettingdark leaves fallas we passed.You too were a little leafthat trembled on my chest.Life's wind put you there.At first I did not see you: I did not knowthat you were walking with me,until your rootspierced my chestjoined the threads of my bloodspoke through my mouthflourished with me.Thus was your inadvertent presenceinvisible leaf or branchand suddenly my heart was filled with fruits and soundsYou occupied the housethat darkly awaited youand then you lit the lamps....the island of stone and mossechoed in the secret of its grottoeslike the song in your mouthand the flower that was bornbetween the crevices of the stonewith its secret syllablespole, as it passed, your nameof blazing plantand the steep rock raisedlike the wall of the world,knew my song, well beloved,and all things spoke ofyour love, my love, belovedbecause earth, time, sea, islandlife, tidethe seed that half opensits lips in the earththe devouring flowerthe movement of springeverything recognizes us.Our love was bornoutside the wallsin the windin the nightin the earthand that's why the clay and the flowerthe mud and the rootsknow your nameand know that my mouthjoined yoursbecause we were sown together in the earthand we alone did not know itand that we grow togetherand flower togetherand thereforewhen we passyour name is on the petalsof the rose that grows on the stone,my name is in the grottoesThey know it allwe have no secretswe have grown togetherbut we did not know it.The sea knows our love, the stonesof the rocky heightknow that our kisses floweredwith infinite purityas in their crevices a scarletmouth dawnsjust as our love and the kissthat joins your mouth and minein an eternal flower.My love,sweet spring,flower and sea, surround us.We did not change itfor our winterwhen the windbegan to decipher your nameand today at all hours it repeatswhenthe leaves did not knowthat you were a leafwhenthe roots did not know that you were seeking mein my breast.Love, love,springoffers us the skybut the dark earthis our nameour love belongs to all time and the earth.Loving each other, my armbeneath your neck of sandwe shall waitas earth and time changeon the islandas the leaves fallfrom the silent climbing vinesas autumn departsthrough the broken window.But weare going to wait forour friendour red-eyed friendthe fire,when the wind againshakes the frontiers of the islandand does not know the names of everyonewinterwill seek us, my lovealwaysit will seek us, because we know itbecause we do not fear itbecause havewith usfireforever,spring with usforeverand when a leaffallsfrom the climbing vinesyou know, my lovewhat name is written oon that leaf,a names that is yours and mineour love name, a singlebeing, the arrowthat pierced winterthe invincible lovethe fire of the daysa leafthat dropped upon my breasta leaf from the treeof lifethat made a nest and sangthat put out rootsthat gave flowers and fruits.And so you see, my love,how I move around the islandaround the worldsafe in the midst of springcrazy with light in the coldwalking tranquil in the firelifting your petalweight in my armsas if I had never walkedexcpet with you, my heartas if I could not walkexcept with youas if I could not singexcept when you sing."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""165"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 165,
        ""poem.id"": 165,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unity"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/18/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There is something dense, united, settled in the depths,repeating its number, its identical sign.How it is noted that stones have touched time,in their refined matter there is an odor of age,of water brought by the sea, from salt and sleep. I'm encircled by a single thing, a single movement: a mineral weight, a honeyed lightcling to the sound of the word \"noche\":the tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears,things of leather, of wood, of wool,archaic, faded, uniform,collect around me like walls.I work quietly, wheeling over myself,a crow over death, a crow in mourning.I mediate, isolated in the spread of seasons,centric, encircled by a silent geometry:a partial temperature drifts down from the sky,a distant empire of confused unitiesreunites encircling me."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""166"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 166,
        ""poem.id"": 166,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode to Hope"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Oceanic dawnat the centerof my life,waves like grapes,the sky's solitude,you fill meand floodthe complete sea,the undiminished sky,tempoand space,sea foam's whitebattalions,the orange earth,the sun'sfiery waistin agony,so manygifts and talents,birds soaring into their dreams,and the sea, the sea,suspendedaroma,chorus of rich, resonant salt,and meanwhile,we men,touch the water,struggling,and hoping,we touch the sea,hoping.And the waves tell the firm coast:'Everything will be fulfilled.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""167"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 167,
        ""poem.id"": 167,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To The Cat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The animals were imperfect,long-tailed,unfortunate in their heads.Little by little theyput themselves together,making themselves a landscape,acquiring spots, grace, flight.The cat,only the catappeared complete and proud:he was born completely finished,walking alone and knowing what he wanted.Man wants to be fish or fowl,the snake would like to have wingsthe dog is a disoriented lion,the engineer would like to be a poet,the fly studies to be a swift,the poet tries to imitate the fly,but the catonly wants to be a catand any cat is a catfrom his whiskers to his tail,from his hopeful vision of a ratto the real thing,from the night to his golden eyes.There is no unitylike him,the moon and the flowerdo not have such context:he is just one thinglike the sun or the topaz,and the elastic line of his contoursis firm and subtle likethe line of a ship's prow.His yellow eyeshave just onegrooveto coin the gold of night time.Oh littleemperor without a sphere of influenceconqueror without a country,smallest living-room tiger, nuptialsultan of the sky,of the erotic roof-tiles,the wind of lovein the stormyou claimwhen you passand placefour delicate feeton the ground,smelling,distrustingall that is terrestrial,because everythingis too uncleanfor the immaculate foot of the cat.Oh independent wild beastof the housearrogantvestige of the night,lazy, gymnasticand alien,very deep cat,secret policemanof bedrooms,insigniaof adisappeared velvet,surely there is noenigmain your manner,perhaps you are not a mystery,everyone knows of youand you belongto the least mysterious inhabitant,perhaps everyone believes it,everyone believes himself the owner,proprietor,uncleof a cat,companion,colleague,discipleor friendof his cat.Not me.I do not subscribe.I do not know the cat.I know it all, life and its archipelago,the sea and the incalculable city,botany,the gyneceum and its frenzies,the plus and the minus of mathematics,the volcanic frauds of the world,the unreal shell of the crocodile,the unknown kindness of the fireman,the blue atavism of the priest,but I cannot decipher a cat.My reason slips on his indifference,his eyes have golden numbers."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""168"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 168,
        ""poem.id"": 168,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Come With Me, I Said, And No One Knew (VII)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Come with me, I said, and no one knewwhere, or how my pain throbbed,no carnations or barcaroles for me, only a wound that love had opened.I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouthor the blood that rose into the silence.O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!That is why when I heard your voice repeatCome with me, it was as if you had let loosethe grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped winethe geysers flooding from deep in its vault:in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again,of blood and carnations, of rock and scald."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""169"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 169,
        ""poem.id"": 169,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Age"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I don't believe in age.All old peoplecarryin their eyes,a child,and children,at timesobserve us with theeyes of wise ancients.Shall we measurelifein meters or kilometersor months?How far since you were born?How longmust you wanderuntillike all meninstead of walking on its surfacewe rest below the earth?To the man, to the womanwho utilized theirenergies, goodness, strength,anger, love, tenderness,to those who trulyaliveflowered,and in their sensuality matured,let us not applythe measureof a timethat may besomething else, a mineralmantle, a solarbird, a flower,something, maybe,but not a measure.Time, metalor bird, longpetiolate flower,stretchthroughman's life,shower himwith blossomsand withbrightwateror with hidden sun.I proclaim youroad,not shroud,a pristineladderwith treadsof air,a suit lovinglyrenewedthrough springtimesaround the world.Now,time, I roll you up,I deposit you in mybait boxand I am off to fishwith your long linethe fishes of the dawn!translated from the Spanish by Margaret Sayers Peden"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""170"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 170,
        ""poem.id"": 170,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Portrait In The Rock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""171"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 171,
        ""poem.id"": 171,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""172"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 172,
        ""poem.id"": 172,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The House Of Odes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""173"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 173,
        ""poem.id"": 173,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oda Al Tomate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""174"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 174,
        ""poem.id"": 174,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Waltz"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""175"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 175,
        ""poem.id"": 175,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""176"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 176,
        ""poem.id"": 176,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Old Women Of The Ocean"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""177"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 177,
        ""poem.id"": 177,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ix: There Where The Waves Shatter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""178"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 178,
        ""poem.id"": 178,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soneto Xvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""179"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 179,
        ""poem.id"": 179,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:55:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Spain Was Like"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""180"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 180,
        ""poem.id"": 180,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiii:The Light That Rises From Your Feet To Your Hair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""181"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 181,
        ""poem.id"": 181,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lxxxiv From: ‘cien Sonetos De Amor’"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""182"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 182,
        ""poem.id"": 182,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tree Is Here, Still, In Pure Stone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""183"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 183,
        ""poem.id"": 183,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poor Creatures"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""184"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 184,
        ""poem.id"": 184,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Triangles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""185"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 185,
        ""poem.id"": 185,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lone Gentleman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""186"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 186,
        ""poem.id"": 186,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Tomatoes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""187"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 187,
        ""poem.id"": 187,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The United Fruit Co."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""188"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 188,
        ""poem.id"": 188,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Clothes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""189"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 189,
        ""poem.id"": 189,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Despair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""190"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 190,
        ""poem.id"": 190,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Viii: If Your Eyes Were Not The Color Of The Moon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""191"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 191,
        ""poem.id"": 191,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poet's Obligation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""192"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 192,
        ""poem.id"": 192,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxiii: Maybe You'Ll Remember"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""193"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 193,
        ""poem.id"": 193,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:56:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""194"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 194,
        ""poem.id"": 194,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Eighth Of September"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""195"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 195,
        ""poem.id"": 195,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Walking Around (Original Spanish)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""196"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 196,
        ""poem.id"": 196,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Potter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""197"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 197,
        ""poem.id"": 197,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xlii: I Hunt For A Sign Of You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""198"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 198,
        ""poem.id"": 198,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leave Me A Place Underground"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""199"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 199,
        ""poem.id"": 199,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gautama Christ"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""200"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 200,
        ""poem.id"": 200,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Finale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15130"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15130,
        ""poem.id"": 15130,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fickle One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15135"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15135,
        ""poem.id"": 15135,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xcv:Who Ever Desired Each Other As We Do"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15136"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15136,
        ""poem.id"": 15136,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15137"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15137,
        ""poem.id"": 15137,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poesia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15138"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15138,
        ""poem.id"": 15138,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Queen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15140"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15140,
        ""poem.id"": 15140,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Castro Alves From Brazil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15141"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15141,
        ""poem.id"": 15141,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:09:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxi: Rest With Your Dream Inside My Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15142"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15142,
        ""poem.id"": 15142,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Like For You To Be Still"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/21/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15143"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15143,
        ""poem.id"": 15143,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Insect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15144"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15144,
        ""poem.id"": 15144,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Luminous Mind, Bright Devil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15145"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15145,
        ""poem.id"": 15145,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Entrance Of The Rivers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15146"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15146,
        ""poem.id"": 15146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To The Artichoke"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15147"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15147,
        ""poem.id"": 15147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So That You Will Hear Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15148"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15148,
        ""poem.id"": 15148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Chant To Bolivar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/8/2009"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15151"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15151,
        ""poem.id"": 15151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""La Muerta"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15152"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15152,
        ""poem.id"": 15152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tell Me, Is The Rose Naked?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15154"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15154,
        ""poem.id"": 15154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Algunas Bestias"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15155"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15155,
        ""poem.id"": 15155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Enigma With Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15156"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15156,
        ""poem.id"": 15156,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Bird Watching"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15157"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15157,
        ""poem.id"": 15157,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lost In The Forest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15158"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15158,
        ""poem.id"": 15158,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxvii: Naked You Are As Simple As One Of Your Hands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15159"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15159,
        ""poem.id"": 15159,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:10:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Night In Isla Negra"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15160"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15160,
        ""poem.id"": 15160,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wide Ocean"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15161"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15161,
        ""poem.id"": 15161,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To My Socks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15162"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15162,
        ""poem.id"": 15162,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love, We'Re Going Home Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15163"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15163,
        ""poem.id"": 15163,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine, Love,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15164"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15164,
        ""poem.id"": 15164,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Weary One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15165"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15165,
        ""poem.id"": 15165,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""‘march Days Return With Their Covert Light’"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15166"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15166,
        ""poem.id"": 15166,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Like You Calm, As If You Were Absent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15167"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15167,
        ""poem.id"": 15167,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To A Naked Beauty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15168"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15168,
        ""poem.id"": 15168,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Broken Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Things get broken at home like they were pushed by an invisible, deliberate smasher. It's not my hands or yours It wasn't the girls with their hard fingernails or the motion of the planet. It wasn't anything or anybody It wasn't the wind It wasn't the orange-colored noontime Or night over the earth It wasn't even the nose or the elbow Or the hips getting bigger or the ankle or the air. The plate broke, the lamp fell All the flower pots tumbled over one by one. That pot which overflowed with scarlet in the middle of October, it got tired from all the violets and another empty one rolled round and round and round all through winter until it was only the powder of a flowerpot, a broken memory, shining dust. And that clock whose sound was the voice of our lives, the secret thread of our weeks, which released one by one, so many hours for honey and silence for so many births and jobs, that clock also fell and its delicate blue guts vibrated among the broken glass its wide heart unsprung. Life goes on grinding up glass, wearing out clothes making fragments breaking down forms and what lasts through time is like an island on a ship in the sea, perishable surrounded by dangerous fragility by merciless waters and threats. Let's put all our treasures together -- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold -- into a sack and carry them to the sea and let our possessions sink into one alarming breaker that sounds like a river. May whatever breaks be reconstructed by the sea with the long labor of its tides. So many useless things which nobody broke but which got broken anyway"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15169"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15169,
        ""poem.id"": 15169,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""La Reina (And Translation)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15170"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15170,
        ""poem.id"": 15170,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Your Hands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15171"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15171,
        ""poem.id"": 15171,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poor Fellows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15172"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15172,
        ""poem.id"": 15172,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonata"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15173"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15173,
        ""poem.id"": 15173,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In You The Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15174"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15174,
        ""poem.id"": 15174,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Viii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15175"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15175,
        ""poem.id"": 15175,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:11:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Maize"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""America, from a grainof maize you grewto crownwith spacious landsthe ocean foam.A grain of maize was your geography.From the graina green lance rose,was covered with gold,to grace the heightsof Peru with its yellow tassels.But, poet, lethistory rest in its shroud;praise with your lyrethe grain in its granaries:sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.First, a fine beardfluttered in the fieldabove the tender teethof the young ear.Then the husks partedand fruitfulness burst its veilsof pale papyrusthat grains of laughtermight fall upon the earth.To the stone,in your journey,you returned.Not to the terrible stone,the bloodytriangle of Mexican death,but to the grinding stone,sacredstone of your kitchens.There, milk and matter,strength-giving, nutritiouscornmeal pulp,you were worked and pattedby the wondrous handsof dark-skinned women.Wherever you fall, maize,whether into thesplendid pot of partridge, or amongcountry beans, you light upthe meal and lend ityour virginal flavor.Oh, to bite intothe steaming ear beside the seaof distant song and deepest waltz.To boil youas your aromaspreads throughblue sierras.But is thereno endto your treasure?In chalky, barren landsborderedby the sea, alongthe rocky Chilean coast,at timesonly your radiancereaches the emptytable of the miner.Your light, your cornmeal, your hopepervades America's solitudes,and to hungeryour lancesare enemy legions.Within your husks,like gentle kernels,our sober provincialchildren's hearts were nurtured,until life beganto shuck us from the ear."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15176"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15176,
        ""poem.id"": 15176,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lovely One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15177"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15177,
        ""poem.id"": 15177,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tower Of Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15178"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15178,
        ""poem.id"": 15178,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dictators"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15179"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15179,
        ""poem.id"": 15179,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Mans Burden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15180"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15180,
        ""poem.id"": 15180,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some Beasts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15181"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15181,
        ""poem.id"": 15181,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxxiv (You Are The Daughter Of The Sea)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15182"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15182,
        ""poem.id"": 15182,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Magellanic Penguin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15183"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15183,
        ""poem.id"": 15183,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Remember You As You Were"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15184"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15184,
        ""poem.id"": 15184,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here I Love You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15185"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15185,
        ""poem.id"": 15185,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of Despair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15186"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15186,
        ""poem.id"": 15186,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death Alone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There are lone cemeteries,tombs full of soundless bones,the heart threading a tunnel,a dark, dark tunnel : like a wreck we die to the very core,as if drowning at the heartor collapsing inwards from skin to soul.There are corpses,clammy slabs for feet,there is death in the bones,like a pure sound,a bark without its dog,out of certain bells, certain tombsswelling in this humidity like lament or rain.I see, when alone at times,coffins under sailsetting out with the pale dead, women in their dead braids,bakers as white as angels,thoughtful girls married to notaries,coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,the wine-dark river to its source,with their sails swollen with the sound of death,filled with the silent noise of death.Death is drawn to soundlike a slipper without a foot, a suit without its wearer,comes to knock with a ring, stoneless and fingerless,comes to shout without a mouth, a tongue, without a throat.Nevertheless its footsteps soundand its clothes echo, hushed like a tree.I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly seebut it seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets,violets well used to the earth,since the face of death is green,and the gaze of death greenwith the etched moisture of a violet's leafand its grave colour of exasperated winter.But death goes about the earth also, riding a broomlapping the ground in search of the dead - death is in the broom,it is the tongue of death looking for the dead,the needle of death looking for the thread.Death lies in our beds : in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets,lives a full stretch and then suddenly blows,blows sound unknown filling out the sheetsand there are beds sailing into a harbour where death is waiting, dressed as an admiral."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15187"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15187,
        ""poem.id"": 15187,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To A Large Tuna In The Market"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15188"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15188,
        ""poem.id"": 15188,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Salt"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15189"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15189,
        ""poem.id"": 15189,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:12:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It’s Good To Feel You Are Close To Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15190"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15190,
        ""poem.id"": 15190,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Wine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Day-colored wine,night-colored wine,wine with purple feetor wine with topaz blood,wine,starry childof earth,wine, smoothas a golden sword,softas lascivious velvet,wine, spiral-seashelledand full of wonder,amorous,marine;never has one goblet contained you,one song, one man,you are choral, gregarious,at the least, you must be shared.At timesyou feed on mortalmemories;your wave carries usfrom tomb to tomb,stonecutter of icy sepulchers,and we weeptransitory tears;yourgloriousspring dressis different,blood rises through the shoots,wind incites the day,nothing is leftof your immutable soul.Winestirs the spring, happinessbursts through the earth like a plant,walls crumble,and rocky cliffs,chasms close,as song is born.A jug of wine, and thou beside mein the wilderness,sang the ancient poet.Let the wine pitcheradd to the kiss of love its own.My darling, suddenlythe line of your hipbecomes the brimming curveof the wine goblet,your breast is the grape cluster,your nipples are the grapes,the gleam of spirits lights your hair,and your navel is a chaste sealstamped on the vessel of your belly,your love an inexhaustiblecascade of wine,light that illuminates my senses,the earthly splendor of life.But you are more than love,the fiery kiss,the heat of fire,more than the wine of life;you arethe community of man,translucency,chorus of discipline,abundance of flowers.I like on the table,when we're speaking,the light of a bottleof intelligent wine.Drink it,and remember in everydrop of gold,in every topaz glass,in every purple ladle,that autumn laboredto fill the vessel with wine;and in the ritual of his office,let the simple man rememberto think of the soil and of his duty,to propagate the canticle of the wine."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15191"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15191,
        ""poem.id"": 15191,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15192"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15192,
        ""poem.id"": 15192,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""‘in The Wave-Strike Over Unquiet Stones’"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15193"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15193,
        ""poem.id"": 15193,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love Sonnet XVII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15194"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15194,
        ""poem.id"": 15194,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To The Book"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When I close a bookI open life.I hearfaltering criesamong harbours.Copper ignotsslide down sand-pitsto Tocopilla.Night time.Among the islandsour oceanthrobs with fish,touches the feet, the thighs,the chalk ribsof my country.The whole of nightclings to its shores, by dawnit wakes up singingas if it had excited a guitar.The ocean's surge is calling.The windcalls meand Rodriguez calls,and Jose Antonio--I got a telegramfrom the \"Mine\" Unionand the one I love(whose name I won't let out)expects me in Bucalemu.No book has been ableto wrap me in paper,to fill me upwith typography,with heavenly imprintsor was ever ableto bind my eyes,I come out of books to people orchardswith the hoarse family of my song,to work the burning metalsor to eat smoked beefby mountain firesides.I love adventurousbooks,books of forest or snow,depth or skybut hatethe spider book in which thoughthas laid poisonous wiresto trap the juvenileand circling fly.Book, let me go.I won't go clothedin volumes,I don't come outof collected works,my poemshave not eaten poems--they devourexciting happenings,feed on rough weather,and dig their foodout of earth and men.I'm on my waywith dust in my shoesfree of mythology:send books back to their shelves,I'm going down into the streets.I learned about lifefrom life itself,love I learned in a single kissand could teach no one anythingexcept that I have livedwith something in common among men,when fighting with them,when saying all their say in my song."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15195"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15195,
        ""poem.id"": 15195,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/5/2011"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15196"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15196,
        ""poem.id"": 15196,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Puedo Escribir"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.Escribir, por ejemplo: 'La noche está estrellada,y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.'El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.Oir la noche inmensa, más inmnesa sin ella.Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guadarla.La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15197"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15197,
        ""poem.id"": 15197,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Question"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15198"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15198,
        ""poem.id"": 15198,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dead Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/10/2005"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15199"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15199,
        ""poem.id"": 15199,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Walking Around"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It so happens I am sick of being a man.And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie housesdried up, waterproof, like a swan made of feltsteering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nailsand my hair and my shadow.It so happens I am sick of being a man.Still it would be marvelousto terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.It would be greatto go through the streets with a green knifeletting out yells until I died of the cold.I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,taking in and thinking, eating every day.I don't want so much misery.I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,half frozen, dying of grief.That's why Monday, when it sees me comingwith my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestineshanging over the doors of houses that I hate,and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,there are mirrorsthat ought to have wept from shame and terror,there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,my rage, forgetting everything,I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:underwear, towels and shirts from which slowdirty tears are falling.Translated by Robert Bly"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15200"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15200,
        ""poem.id"": 15200,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15201"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15201,
        ""poem.id"": 15201,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brown And Agile Child"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15202"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15202,
        ""poem.id"": 15202,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Sadness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15203"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15203,
        ""poem.id"": 15203,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Absence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15204"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15204,
        ""poem.id"": 15204,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:13:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fleas Interest Me So Much"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15205"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15205,
        ""poem.id"": 15205,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Lxxxi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15206"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15206,
        ""poem.id"": 15206,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xxv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15207"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15207,
        ""poem.id"": 15207,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Light Wraps You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15208"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15208,
        ""poem.id"": 15208,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cat's Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15209"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15209,
        ""poem.id"": 15209,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leaning Into The Afternoons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15210"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15210,
        ""poem.id"": 15210,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Book Of Questions"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15211"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15211,
        ""poem.id"": 15211,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gentleman Alone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The young maricones and the horny muchachas,The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,Like a collar of palpitating sexual oystersSurround my solitary home,Enemies of my soul,Conspirators in pajamasWho exchange deep kisses for passwords.Radiant summer brings out the loversIn melancholy regiments,Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,There is a continual life of pants and panties,A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,And women's breasts that glisten like eyes.The salary man, after a while,After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,Has decisively fucked his neighbor,And now takes her to the miserable movies,Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,And he caresses her legs covered with sweet downWith his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.The night of the hunter and the night of the husbandCome together like bed sheets and bury me,And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating,And the animals mount each other openly,And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,And cousins play strange games with cousins,And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other trulyOn beds big and tall as ships:So, eternally,This twisted and breathing forest crushes meWith gigantic flowers like mouth and teethAnd black roots like fingernails and shoes.Translated by Mike Topp"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15212"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15212,
        ""poem.id"": 15212,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lost In The Forest..."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15213"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15213,
        ""poem.id"": 15213,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""‘perhaps Not To Be Is To Be Without Your Being.’"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15214"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15214,
        ""poem.id"": 15214,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nothing But Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There are cemeteries that are lonely,graves full of bones that do not make a sound,the heart moving through a tunnel,in it darkness, darkness, darkness,like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,as though we were drowning inside our hearts,as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.And there are corpses,feet made of cold and sticky clay,death is inside the bones,like a barking where there are no dogs,coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,growing in the damp air like tears of rain.Sometimes I see alonecoffins under sail,embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,with bakers who are as white as angels,and pensive young girls married to notary publics,caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,the river of dark purple,moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,filled by the sound of death which is silence.Death arrives among all that soundlike a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it,comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat.Nevertheless its steps can be heardand its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,of violets that are at home in the earth,because the face of death is green,and the look death gives is green,with the penetrating dampness of a violet leafand the somber color of embittered winter.But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,death is inside the broom,the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,it is the needle of death looking for thread.Death is inside the folding cots:it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,and the beds go sailing toward a portwhere death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.Translated by Robert Bly"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15215"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15215,
        ""poem.id"": 15215,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""‘carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon,’"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15216"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15216,
        ""poem.id"": 15216,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Are Many"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,I cannot settle on a single one.They are lost to me under the cover of clothingThey have departed for another city.When everything seems to be setto show me off as a man of intelligence,the fool I keep concealed on my persontakes over my talk and occupies my mouth.On other occasions, I am dozing in the midstof people of some distinction,and when I summon my courageous self,a coward completely unknown to meswaddles my poor skeletonin a thousand tiny reservations.When a stately home bursts into flames,instead of the fireman I summon,an arsonist bursts on the scene,and he is I. There is nothing I can do.What must I do to distinguish myself?How can I put myself together?All the books I readlionize dazzling hero figures,brimming with self-assurance.I die with envy of them;and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,I am left in envy of the cowboys,left admiring even the horses.But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,and so I never know just WHO I AM,nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.I would like to be able to touch a belland call up my real self, the truly me,because if I really need my proper self,I must not allow myself to disappear.While I am writing, I am far away;and when I come back, I have already left.I should like to see if the same thing happensto other people as it does to me,to see if as many people are as I am,and if they seem the same way to themselves.When this problem has been thoroughly explored,I am going to school myself so well in thingsthat, when I try to explain my problems,I shall speak, not of self, but of geography."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15217"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15217,
        ""poem.id"": 15217,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Always"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15218"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15218,
        ""poem.id"": 15218,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:14:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15219"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15219,
        ""poem.id"": 15219,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Canto Xii From The Heights Of Macchu Picchu"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Arise to birth with me, my brother.Give me your hand out of the depthssown by your sorrows.You will not return from these stone fastnesses.You will not emerge from subterranean time.Your rasping voice will not come back,nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.Look at me from the depths of the earth,tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,groom of totemic guanacos,mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,iceman of Andean tears,jeweler with crushed fingers,farmer anxious among his seedlings,potter wasted among his clays--bring to the cup of this new lifeyour ancient buried sorrows.Show me your blood and your furrow;say to me: here I was scourgedbecause a gem was dull or because the earthfailed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,the wood they used to crucify your body.Strike the old flintsto kindle ancient lamps, light up the whipsglued to your wounds throughout the centuriesand light the axes gleaming with your blood.I come to speak for your dead mouths.Throughout the earthlet dead lips congregate,out of the depths spin this long night to meas if I rode at anchor here with you.And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,and link by link, and step by step;sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,thrust them into my breast, into my hands,like a torrent of sunbursts,an Amazon of buried jaguars,and leave me cry: hours, days and years,blind ages, stellar centuries.And give me silence, give me water, hope.Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.Speak through my speech, and through my blood."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15220"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15220,
        ""poem.id"": 15220,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fable Of The Mermaid And The Drunks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/25/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15221"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15221,
        ""poem.id"": 15221,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Saddest Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15222"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15222,
        ""poem.id"": 15222,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poetry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15223"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15223,
        ""poem.id"": 15223,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Enigmas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15224"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15224,
        ""poem.id"": 15224,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Your Feet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15225"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15225,
        ""poem.id"": 15225,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Saddest Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15226"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15226,
        ""poem.id"": 15226,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""And Because Love Battles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/6/2006"",
        ""poem.content"": ""And because love battlesnot only in its burning agriculturesbut also in the mouth of men and women,I will finish off by taking the path awayto those who between my chest and your fragrancewant to interpose their obscure plant.About me, nothing worsethey will tell you, my love,than what I told you.I lived in the prairiesbefore I got to know youand I did not wait love but I waslaying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.What more can they tell you?I am neither good nor bad but a man,and they will then associate the dangerof my life, which you knowand which with your passion you shared.And good, this dangeris danger of love, of complete lovefor all life,for all lives,and if this love brings usthe death and the prisons,I am sure that your big eyes,as when I kiss them,will then close with pride,into double pride, love,with your pride and my pride.But to my ears they will come beforeto wear down the tourof the sweet and hard love which binds us,and they will say: “The oneyou love,is not a woman for you,Why do you love her? I thinkyou could find one more beautiful,more serious, more deep,more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,and what a head she has,and look at how she dresses,and etcetera and etcetera”.And I in these lines say:Like this I want you, love,love, Like this I love you,as you dressand how your hair lifts upand how your mouth smiles,light as the waterof the spring upon the pure stones,Like this I love you, beloved.To bread I do not ask to teach mebut only not to lack during every day of life.I don’t know anything about light, from whereit comes nor where it goes,I only want the light to light up,I do not ask to the nightexplanations,I wait for it and it envelops me,And so you, bread and lightAnd shadow are.You came to my lifewith what you were bringing,madeof light and bread and shadow I expected you,and Like this I need you,Like this I love you,and to those who want to hear tomorrowthat which I will not tell them, let them read it here,and let them back off today because it is earlyfor these arguments.Tomorrow we will only give thema leaf of the tree of our love, a leafwhich will fall on the earthlike if it had been made by our lipslike a kiss which fallsfrom our invincible heightsto show the fire and the tendernessof a true love."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15227"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15227,
        ""poem.id"": 15227,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M Explaining A Few Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?and the rain repeatedly spatteringits words and drilling them fullof apertures and birds?I'll tell you all the news.I lived in a suburb,a suburb of Madrid, with bells,and clocks, and trees.From there you could look outover Castille's dry face:a leather ocean.My house was calledthe house of flowers, because in every crannygeraniums burst: it wasa good-looking housewith its dogs and children.Remember, Raul?Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you rememberfrom under the groundmy balconies on whichthe light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?Brother, my brother!Everythingloud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,pile-ups of palpitating bread,the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statuelike a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:oil flowed into spoons,a deep bayingof feet and hands swelled in the streets,metres, litres, the sharpmeasure of life,stacked-up fish,the texture of roofs with a cold sun in whichthe weather vane falters,the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.And one morning all that was burning,one morning the bonfiresleapt out of the earthdevouring human beings --and from then on fire,gunpowder from then on,and from then on blood.Bandits with planes and Moors,bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,bandits with black friars spattering blessingscame through the sky to kill childrenand the blood of children ran through the streetswithout fuss, like children's blood.Jackals that the jackals would despise,stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,vipers that the vipers would abominate!Face to face with you I have seen the bloodof Spain tower like a tideto drown you in one waveof pride and knives!Treacherousgenerals:see my dead house,look at broken Spain :from every house burning metal flowsinstead of flowers,from every socket of SpainSpain emergesand from every dead child a rifle with eyes,and from every crime bullets are bornwhich will one day findthe bull's eye of your hearts.And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetryspeak of dreams and leavesand the great volcanoes of his native land?Come and see the blood in the streets.Come and seeThe blood in the streets.Come and see the bloodIn the streets!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15228"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15228,
        ""poem.id"": 15228,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Lemon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15229"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15229,
        ""poem.id"": 15229,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15230"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15230,
        ""poem.id"": 15230,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Xvii (I Do Not Love You...)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15231"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15231,
        ""poem.id"": 15231,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Clenched Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15232"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15232,
        ""poem.id"": 15232,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song Of Despair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The memory of you emerges from the night around me.The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.Deserted like the wharves at dawn.It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.In you the wars and the flights accumulated.From you the wings of the song birds rose.You swallowed everything, like distance.Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back,beyond desire and act, I walked on.Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.There was the black solitude of the islands,and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain mein the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.Oh the mad coupling of hope and forcein which we merged and despaired.And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.And the word scarcely begun on the lips.This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang.Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hourwhich the night fastens to all the timetables.The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.Deserted like the wharves at dawn.Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15233"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15233,
        ""poem.id"": 15233,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:15:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From – Twenty Poems Of Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/25/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15234"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15234,
        ""poem.id"": 15234,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Drunk As Drunk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15235"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15235,
        ""poem.id"": 15235,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In My Sky At Twilight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15236"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15236,
        ""poem.id"": 15236,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15237"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15237,
        ""poem.id"": 15237,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dog Has Died"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""My dog has died.I buried him in the gardennext to a rusted old machine.Some day I'll join him right there,but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,his bad manners and his cold nose,and I, the materialist, who never believedin any promised heaven in the skyfor any human being,I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdomwhere my dog waits for my arrivalwaving his fan-like tail in friendship.Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,of having lost a companionwho was never servile.His friendship for me, like that of a porcupinewithholding its authority,was the friendship of a star, aloof,with no more intimacy than was called for,with no exaggerations:he never climbed all over my clothesfilling me full of his hair or his mange,he never rubbed up against my kneelike other dogs obsessed with sex.No, my dog used to gaze at me,paying me the attention I need,the attention requiredto make a vain person like me understandthat, being a dog, he was wasting time,but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,he'd keep on gazing at mewith a look that reserved for me aloneall his sweet and shaggy life,always near me, never troubling me,and asking nothing.Ai, how many times have I envied his tailas we walked together on the shores of the seain the lonely winter of Isla Negrawhere the wintering birds filled the skyand my hairy dog was jumping aboutfull of the voltage of the sea's movement:my wandering dog, sniffing awaywith his golden tail held high,face to face with the ocean's spray.Joyful, joyful, joyful,as only dogs know how to be happywith only the autonomyof their shameless spirit.There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,and we don't now and never did lie to each other.So now he's gone and I buried him,and that's all there is to it.Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15238"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15238,
        ""poem.id"": 15238,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xvii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15239"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15239,
        ""poem.id"": 15239,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Your Laughter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15240"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15240,
        ""poem.id"": 15240,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Don'T Go Far Off"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15241"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15241,
        ""poem.id"": 15241,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    },
    ""15242"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15242,
        ""poem.id"": 15242,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If You Forget Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Pablo Neruda""
    }
}"
6,"2018-02-28 20:26:14","Emily Dickinson","{
    ""201"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 201,
        ""poem.id"": 201,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/5/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Pang is more conspicuous in SpringIn contrast with the things that singNot Birds entirely - but Minds - Minute Effulgencies and Winds - When what they sung for is undoneWho cares about a Blue Bird's Tune - Why, Resurrection had to waitTill they had moved a Stone -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""202"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 202,
        ""poem.id"": 202,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Ever The Lid Gets Off My Head"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""If ever the lid gets off my headAnd lets the brain awayThe fellow will go where he belonged - Without a hint from me,And the world - if the world be looking on - Will see how far from homeIt is possible for sense to liveThe soul there - all the time."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""203"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 203,
        ""poem.id"": 203,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Work Of Her That Went"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Work of Her that went,The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes,By Fires of the Sun."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""204"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 204,
        ""poem.id"": 204,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""And with what body do they come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'And with what body do they come?' - Then they do come - Rejoice!What Door - What Hour - Run - run - My Soul!Illuminate the House!'Body!' Then real - a Face and Eyes - To know that it is them!Paul knew the Man that knew the News - He passed through Bethlehem -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""205"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 205,
        ""poem.id"": 205,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:57:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So much of Heaven has gone from Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""So much of Heaven has gone from EarthThat there must be a HeavenIf only to enclose the SaintsTo Affidavit given.The Missionary to the MoleMust prove there is a SkyLocation doubtless he would pleadBut what excuse have I?Too much of Proof affronts BeliefThe Turtle will not tryUnless you leave him - then returnAnd he has hauled away."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""206"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 206,
        ""poem.id"": 206,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His voice decrepit was with Joy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""His voice decrepit was with Joy - Her words did totter soHow old the News of Love must beTo make Lips elderlyThat purled a moment since with Glee - Is it Delight or Woe - Or Terror - that do decorateThis livid interview -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""207"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 207,
        ""poem.id"": 207,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Remembrance has a Rear and Front"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Remembrance has a Rear and Front - 'Tis something like a House - It has a Garret alsoFor Refuse and the Mouse.Besides the deepest CellarThat ever Mason laid - Look to it by its FathomsOurselves be not pursued -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""208"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 208,
        ""poem.id"": 208,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Fevered Days - to take them to the Forest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""These Fevered Days - to take them to the ForestWhere Waters cool around the mosses crawl - And shade is all that devastates the stillnessSeems it sometimes this would be all -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""209"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 209,
        ""poem.id"": 209,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Devil - had he fidelity"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Devil - had he fidelityWould be the best friend - Because he has ability - But Devils cannot mend - Perfidy is the virtueThat would but he resignThe Devil - without questionWere thoroughly divine"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""210"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 210,
        ""poem.id"": 210,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of so divine a Loss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Of so divine a LossWe enter but the Gain,Indemnity for LonelinessThat such a Bliss has been."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""211"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 211,
        ""poem.id"": 211,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Beggar at the Door for Fame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Beggar at the Door for FameWere easily suppliedBut Bread is that Diviner thingDisclosed to be denied"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""212"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 212,
        ""poem.id"": 212,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Praise it - 'tis dead -"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/7/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Praise it - 'tis dead - It cannot glow - Warm this inclement EarWith the encomium it earnedSince it was gathered here - Invest this alabaster ZestIn the Delights of Dust - Remitted - since it flitted itIn recusance august."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""213"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 213,
        ""poem.id"": 213,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tomorrow' - whose location"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/20/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Tomorrow' - whose locationThe Wise deceivesThough its hallucinationIs last that leaves - Tomorrow - thou RetrieverOf every tare - Of Alibi art thouOr ownest where?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""214"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 214,
        ""poem.id"": 214,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As old as Woe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/29/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""As old as Woe - How old is that?Some eighteen thousand years - As old as BlissHow old is thatThey are of equal yearsTogether chiefest they ard foundBut seldom side by sideFrom neither of them tho' he tryCan Human nature hide"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""215"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 215,
        ""poem.id"": 215,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Best Witchcraft is Geometry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/4/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Best Witchcraft is GeometryTo the magician's mind - His ordinary acts are featsTo thinking of mankind."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""216"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 216,
        ""poem.id"": 216,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Clover's simple Fame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Clover's simple FameRemembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled RealmsOf notability.Renown perceives itselfAnd that degrades the Flower - The Daisy that has looked behindHas compromised its power -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""217"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 217,
        ""poem.id"": 217,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Let me not mar that perfect Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Let me not mar that perfect DreamBy an Auroral stainBut so adjust my daily NightThat it will come again.Not when we know, the Power accosts - The Garment of SurpriseWas all our timid Mother woreAt Home - in Paradise."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""218"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 218,
        ""poem.id"": 218,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:58:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Immured in Heaven!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/21/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Immured in Heaven!What a Cell!Let every Bondage be,Thou sweetest of the Universe,Like that which ravished thee!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""219"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 219,
        ""poem.id"": 219,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not Sickness stains the Brave,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/26/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Not Sickness stains the Brave,Nor any Dart,Nor Doubt of Scene to come,But an adjourning Heart -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""220"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 220,
        ""poem.id"": 220,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Glory is that bright tragic thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/29/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Glory is that bright tragic thingThat for an instantMeans Dominion - Warms some poor nameThat never felt the Sun,Gently replacingIn oblivion -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""221"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 221,
        ""poem.id"": 221,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It stole along so stealthy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/25/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It stole along so stealthySuspicion it was doneWas dim as to the wealthyBeginning not to own -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""222"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 222,
        ""poem.id"": 222,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Witchcraft Has Not A Pedigree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Witchcraft has not a pedigree,‘Tis early as our breath,And mourners meet it going outThe moment of our death."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""223"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 223,
        ""poem.id"": 223,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If all the griefs I am to have"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/26/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""If all the griefs I am to haveWould only come today,I am so happy I believeThey'd laugh and run away.If all the joys I am to haveWould only come today,They could not be so big as thisThat happens to me now."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""224"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 224,
        ""poem.id"": 224,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whose Pink career may have a close"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Whose Pink career may have a closePortentous as our own, who knows?To imitate these Neighbors fleetIn awe and innocence, were meet."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""225"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 225,
        ""poem.id"": 225,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Image of Light, Adieu"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Image of Light, Adieu - Thanks for the interview - So long - so short - Preceptor of the whole - Coeval Cardinal - Impart - Depart -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""226"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 226,
        ""poem.id"": 226,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Warm in her Hand these accents lie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/18/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Warm in her Hand these accents lieWhile faithful and afarThe Grace so awkward for her sakeIts fond subjection wear -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""227"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 227,
        ""poem.id"": 227,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On my volcano grows the Grass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""On my volcano grows the GrassA meditative spot - An acre for a Bird to chooseWould be the General thought - How red the Fire rocks below - How insecure the sodDid I discloseWould populate with awe my solitude."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""228"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 228,
        ""poem.id"": 228,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hope is a strange invention"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/26/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Hope is a strange invention - A Patent of the Heart - In unremitting actionYet never wearing out - Of this electric AdjunctNot anything is knownBut its unique momentumEmbellish all we own -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""229"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 229,
        ""poem.id"": 229,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Speech is one symptom of Affection"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/11/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Speech is one symptom of AffectionAnd Silence one - The perfectest communicationIs heard of none - Exists and its indorsementIs had within - Behold, said the Apostle,Yet had not seen!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""230"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 230,
        ""poem.id"": 230,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 03:59:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ended, ere it begun -"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/4/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely toldWhen the Preface perished from ConsciousnessThe Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!Had it been yours, to read!That it was not Our privilegeThe interdict of God -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""231"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 231,
        ""poem.id"": 231,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It sounded as if the Streets were running"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It sounded as if the Streets were runningAnd then - the Streets stood still - Eclipse - was all we could see at the WindowAnd Awe - was all we could feel.By and by - the boldest stole out of his CovertTo see if Time was there - Nature was in an Opal Apron,Mixing fresher Air."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""232"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 232,
        ""poem.id"": 232,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Spry Arms Of The Wind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The spry Arms of the WindIf I could crawl betweenI have an errand imminentTo an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stopMy Process is not longThe Wind could wait without the GateOr stroll the Town among.To ascertain the HouseAnd is the soul at HomeAnd hold the Wick of mine to itTo light, and then return -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""233"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 233,
        ""poem.id"": 233,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some Days retired from the rest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/18/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Some Days retired from the restIn soft distinction lieThe Day that a Companion cameOr was obliged to die"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""234"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 234,
        ""poem.id"": 234,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets - of Red - And Crews - of solid Blood - Did place upon the West - Tonight - As 'twere specific Ground - And They - appointed Creatures - In Authorized Arrays - Due - promptly - as a Drama - That bows - and disappears -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""235"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 235,
        ""poem.id"": 235,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Down Time's quaint stream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/12/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Down Time's quaint streamWithout an oarWe are enforced to sailOur Port a secretOur Perchance a GaleWhat Skipper wouldIncur the RiskWhat Buccaneer would rideWithout a surety from the WindOr schedule of the Tide -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""236"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 236,
        ""poem.id"": 236,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A train went through a burial gate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/22/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A train went through a burial gate,A bird broke forth and sang,And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throatTill all the churchyard rang;And then adjusted his little notes,And bowed and sang again.Doubtless, he thought it meet of himTo say good-by to men."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""237"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 237,
        ""poem.id"": 237,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shall I take thee, the Poet said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Shall I take thee, the Poet saidTo the propounded word?Be stationed with the CandidatesTill I have finer tried—The Poet searched PhilologyAnd when about to ringFor the suspended CandidateThere came unsummoned in—That portion of the VisionThe Word applied to fillNot unto nominationThe Cherubim reveal—"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""238"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 238,
        ""poem.id"": 238,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As from the earth the light Balloon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""As from the earth the light BalloonAsks nothing but release - Ascension that for which it was,Its soaring Residence.The spirit looks upon the DustThat fastened it so longWith indignation,As a BirdDefrauded of its song."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""239"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 239,
        ""poem.id"": 239,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He ate and drank the precious Words"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""He ate and drank the precious Words - His Spirit grew robust - He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was Dust - He danced along the dingy DaysAnd this Bequest of WingsWas but a Book - What LibertyA loosened spirit brings -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""240"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 240,
        ""poem.id"": 240,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Yellow was the outer Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/7/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Nature rarer uses YellowThan another Hue.Saves she all of that for SunsetsProdigal of BlueSpending Scarlet, like a WomanYellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectlyLike a Lover's Words."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15283"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15283,
        ""poem.id"": 15283,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Would Distil A Cup"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15284"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15284,
        ""poem.id"": 15284,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lightly Stepped A Yellow Star"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/16/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Lightly stepped a yellow starTo its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hatFrom her lustral Face - All of Evening softly litAs an Astral Hall - Father, I observed to Heaven,You are punctual."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15285"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15285,
        ""poem.id"": 15285,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Revolution is the Pod"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/13/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Revolution is the PodSystems rattle fromWhen the Winds of Will are stirredExcellent is BloomBut except its Russet BaseEvery Summer beThe Entomber of itself,So of Liberty - Left inactive on the StalkAll its Purple fledRevolution shakes it forTest if it be dead."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15286"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15286,
        ""poem.id"": 15286,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Chrysalis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/13/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""My cocoon tightens, colors tease,I'm feeling for the air;A dim capacity for wingsDegrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must beThe aptitude to fly,Meadows of majesty concedesAnd easy sweeps of sky. So I must baffle at the hintAnd cipher at the sign,And make much blunder, if at lastI take the clew divine."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15287"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15287,
        ""poem.id"": 15287,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:16:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Declaiming Waters None May Dread"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/22/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15288"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15288,
        ""poem.id"": 15288,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Duties Of The Wind Are Few"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The duties of the Wind are few,To cast the ships, at Sea,Establish March, the Floods escort,And usher Liberty.The pleasures of the Wind are broad,To dwell Extent among,Remain, or wander,Speculate, or Forests entertain.The kinsmen of the Wind are PeaksAzof - the Equinox,Also with Bird and AsteroidA bowing intercourse.The limitations of the WindDo he exist, or die,Too wise he seems for Wakelessness,However, know not i."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15289"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15289,
        ""poem.id"": 15289,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""STEP lightly on this narrow spot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""STEP lightly on this narrow spot! The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose. Step lofty; for this name is told As far as cannon dwell, Or flag subsist, or fame export Her deathless syllable."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15290"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15290,
        ""poem.id"": 15290,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Human Nature dotes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/21/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""How Human Nature dotesOn what it can't detect.The moment that a Plot is plumbedProspective is extinct - Prospective is the friendReserved for us to knowWhen Constancy is clarifiedOf Curiosity - Of subjects that resistRedoubtablest is thisWhere go we - Go we anywhereCreation after this?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15291"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15291,
        ""poem.id"": 15291,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Road Was Lit With Moon And Star"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/16/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Road was lit with Moon and star - The Trees were bright and still - Descried I - by the distant LightA Traveller on a Hill - To magic PerpendicularsAscending, though Terrene - Unknown his shimmering ultimate - But he indorsed the sheen -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15292"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15292,
        ""poem.id"": 15292,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To See Her Is A Picture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/3/2013"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15293"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15293,
        ""poem.id"": 15293,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There comes a warning like a spy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There comes a warning like a spyA shorter breath of DayA stealing that is not a stealthAnd Summers are away"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15294"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15294,
        ""poem.id"": 15294,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wind Took Up The Northern Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Wind took up the Northern ThingsAnd piled them in the south - Then gave the East unto the WestAnd opening his mouthThe four Divisions of the EarthDid make as to devourWhile everything to corners slunkBehind the awful power - The Wind - unto his Chambers wentAnd nature ventured out - Her subjects scattered into placeHer systems ranged aboutAgain the smoke from Dwellings roseThe Day abroad was heard - How intimate, a Tempest pastThe Transport of the Bird -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15295"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15295,
        ""poem.id"": 15295,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Notice that is called the Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/5/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Notice that is called the SpringIs but a month from here - Put up my Heart thy Hoary workAnd take a Rosy Chair.Not any House the Flowers keep - The Birds enamor Care - Our salary the longest DayIs nothing but a Bier."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15296"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15296,
        ""poem.id"": 15296,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I am afraid to own a Body"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/26/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I am afraid to own a Body - I am afraid to own a Soul - Profound - precarious Property - Possession, not optional - Double Estate - entailed at pleasureUpon an unsuspecting Heir - Duke in a moment of DeathlessnessAnd God, for a Frontier."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15297"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15297,
        ""poem.id"": 15297,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Had we our senses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/7/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Had we our sensesBut perhaps 'tis well they're not at HomeSo intimate with MadnessHe's liable with themHad we the eyes without our Head—How well that we are Blind—We could not look upon the Earth—So utterly unmoved—"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15298"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15298,
        ""poem.id"": 15298,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Air has no Residence, no Neighbor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Air has no Residence, no Neighbor,No Ear, no Door,No Apprehension of AnotherOh, Happy Air!Ethereal Guest at e'en an Outcast's Pillow - Essential Host, in Life's faint, wailing Inn,Later than Light thy Consciousness accost meTill it depart, persuading Mine -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15299"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15299,
        ""poem.id"": 15299,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Words The Happy Say"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The words the happy sayAre paltry melodyBut those the silent feelAre beautiful—"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15300"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15300,
        ""poem.id"": 15300,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Have No Life But This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/22/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15301"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15301,
        ""poem.id"": 15301,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Sickness Of This World It Most Occasions"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Sickness of this World it most occasionsWhen Best Men die.A Wishfulness their far ConditionTo occupy.A Chief indifference, as ForeignA World must beThemselves forsake - contented,For Deity."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15302"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15302,
        ""poem.id"": 15302,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Face we choose to miss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Face we choose to miss - Be it but for a DayAs absent as a Hundred Years,When it has rode away."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15303"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15303,
        ""poem.id"": 15303,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:17:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Spider sewed at Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Spider sewed at NightWithout a LightUpon an Arc of White.If Ruff it was of DameOr Shroud of GnomeHimself himself inform.Of ImmortalityHis StrategyWas Physiognomy."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15304"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15304,
        ""poem.id"": 15304,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heavenly Father"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Heavenly Father' - take to theeThe supreme iniquityFashioned by thy candid HandIn a moment contraband - Though to trust us - seems to usMore respectful - 'We are Dust' - We apologize to theeFor thine own Duplicity -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15305"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15305,
        ""poem.id"": 15305,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Reverse Cannot Befall"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15306"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15306,
        ""poem.id"": 15306,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On That Dear Frame The Years Had Worn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15307"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15307,
        ""poem.id"": 15307,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This That Would Greet&Mdash;An Hour Ago"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15308"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15308,
        ""poem.id"": 15308,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Himmaleh Was Known To Stoop"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15309"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15309,
        ""poem.id"": 15309,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Are Two Ripenings—one—of Sight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15310"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15310,
        ""poem.id"": 15310,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Shall I Do—it Whimpers So"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15311"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15311,
        ""poem.id"": 15311,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Least Rivers—docile To Some Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15312"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15312,
        ""poem.id"": 15312,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Have A Little Odor—that To Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15313"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15313,
        ""poem.id"": 15313,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Flee From Memory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/16/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""To flee from memoryHad we the WingsMany would flyInured to slower thingsBirds with surpriseWould scan the cowering VanOf men escapingFrom the mind of man"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15314"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15314,
        ""poem.id"": 15314,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mine enemy is growing old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""MINE enemy is growing old, I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, Let him be quick, the viand flits, It is a faded meat. Anger as soon as fed is dead; 'T is starving makes it fat."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15315"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15315,
        ""poem.id"": 15315,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:18:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Escape is such a thankful Word"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Escape is such a thankful WordI often in the NightConsider it unto myselfNo spectacle in sightEscape - it is the BasketIn which the Heart is caughtWhen down some awful BattlementThe rest of Life is dropt - 'Tis not to sight the savior - It is to be the saved - And that is why I lay my HeadUpon this trusty word -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15316"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15316,
        ""poem.id"": 15316,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Anguish Grander Than Delight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15317"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15317,
        ""poem.id"": 15317,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Low At My Problem Bending"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15318"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15318,
        ""poem.id"": 15318,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Sometimes Drop It, For A Quick"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15319"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15319,
        ""poem.id"": 15319,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Tribulation, These Are They"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15320"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15320,
        ""poem.id"": 15320,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kill Your Balm—and Its Odors Bless You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15321"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15321,
        ""poem.id"": 15321,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A lane of Yellow led the eye"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/7/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A lane of Yellow led the eyeUnto a Purple WoodWhose soft inhabitants to beSurpasses solitudeIf Bird the silence contradictOr flower presume to showIn that low summer of the WestImpossible to know -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15322"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15322,
        ""poem.id"": 15322,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Exhilaration is the Breeze"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/29/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Exhilaration is the BreezeThat lifts us from the GroundAnd leaves us in another placeWhose statement is not found - Returns us not, but after timeWe soberly descendA little newer for the termUpon Enchanted Ground -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15323"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15323,
        ""poem.id"": 15323,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Are Friends Delight Or Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/10/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Are Friends Delight or Pain?Could Bounty but remainRiches were good - But if they only stayAmpler to fly awayRiches are sad."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15324"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15324,
        ""poem.id"": 15324,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These—saw Visions"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15325"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15325,
        ""poem.id"": 15325,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Day Is There Of The Series"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15326"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15326,
        ""poem.id"": 15326,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Too cold is this"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/19/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Too cold is thisTo warm with Sun - Too stiff to bended be,To joint this Agate were a work - Outstaring Masonry - How went the Agile Kernel outContusion of the HuskNor Rip, nor wrinkle indicateBut just an Asterisk."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15327"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15327,
        ""poem.id"": 15327,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Grace—myself—might Not Obtain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15328"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15328,
        ""poem.id"": 15328,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Bobolink—reverse His Singing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15329"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15329,
        ""poem.id"": 15329,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Size Circumscribes—it Has No Room"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15330"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15330,
        ""poem.id"": 15330,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:19:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So The Eyes Accost—and Sunder"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15331"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15331,
        ""poem.id"": 15331,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Court Obtain Within Himself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15332"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15332,
        ""poem.id"": 15332,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Brussels—it Was Not"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15333"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15333,
        ""poem.id"": 15333,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15334"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15334,
        ""poem.id"": 15334,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Memory is full"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When Memory is fullPut on the perfect Lid - This Morning's finest syllablePresumptuous Evening said -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15335"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15335,
        ""poem.id"": 15335,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Sing To Use The Waiting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15336"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15336,
        ""poem.id"": 15336,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Shame Of Nobleness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15337"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15337,
        ""poem.id"": 15337,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""September's Baccalaureate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""September's BaccalaureateA combination isOf Crickets - Crows - and RetrospectsAnd a dissembling BreezeThat hints without assuming - An Innuendo searThat makes the Heart put up its FunAnd turn Philosopher."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15338"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15338,
        ""poem.id"": 15338,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""High From The Earth I Heard A Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""High from the earth I heard a bird;He trod upon the treesAs he esteemed them trifles,And then he spied a breeze,And situated softlyUpon a pile of windWhich in a perturbationNature had left behind.A joyous-going fellowI gathered from his talk,Which both of benedictionAnd badinage partook,Without apparent burden,I learned, in leafy woodHe was the faithful fatherOf a dependent brood;And this untoward transportHis remedy for care,—A contrast to our respites.How different we are!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15339"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15339,
        ""poem.id"": 15339,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Longing is like the Seed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/24/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Longing is like the SeedThat wrestles in the Ground,Believing if it intercedeIt shall at length be found.The Hour, and the Clime - Each Circumstance unknown,What Constancy must be achievedBefore it see the Sun!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15340"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15340,
        ""poem.id"": 15340,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Is It Too Late To Touch You, Dear?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Is it too late to touch you, Dear?We this moment knew - Love Marine and Love terrene - Love celestial too -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15341"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15341,
        ""poem.id"": 15341,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Word dropped careless on a Page"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/29/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Word dropped careless on a PageMay stimulate an eyeWhen folded in perpetual seamThe Wrinkled Maker lieInfection in the sentence breedsWe may inhale DespairAt distances of CenturiesFrom the Malaria -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15342"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15342,
        ""poem.id"": 15342,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There is another Loneliness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There is another LonelinessThat many die without - Not want of friend occasions itOr circumstances of LotBut nature, sometimes, sometimes thoughtAnd whoso it befallIs richer than could be revealedBy mortal numeral"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15343"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15343,
        ""poem.id"": 15343,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:20:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Luck is not chance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Luck is not chanceIt's ToilFortune's expensive smileIs earnedThe Father of the MineIs that old-fashioned CoinWe spurned"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15344"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15344,
        ""poem.id"": 15344,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dear March - Come in"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""DEAR March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat— You must have walked— How out of breath you are! Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell! I got your letter, and the bird's; The maples never knew That you were coming,—I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me— And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you. Who knocks? That April! Lock the door! I will not be pursued! He stayed away a year, to call When I am occupied. But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come, That blame is just as dear as praise And praise as mere as blame."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15345"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15345,
        ""poem.id"": 15345,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Tested Our Horizon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15346"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15346,
        ""poem.id"": 15346,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Best Acquaintances Are Those"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15347"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15347,
        ""poem.id"": 15347,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Other Can Reduce"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15348"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15348,
        ""poem.id"": 15348,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Severer Service Of Myself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15349"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15349,
        ""poem.id"": 15349,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lamp Burns Sure—within"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15350"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15350,
        ""poem.id"": 15350,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not That We Did, Shall Be The Test"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15351"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15351,
        ""poem.id"": 15351,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Was In The White Of The Year"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15352"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15352,
        ""poem.id"": 15352,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tint I Cannot Take—is Best"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15353"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15353,
        ""poem.id"": 15353,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Morns Like These—we Parted"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15354"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15354,
        ""poem.id"": 15354,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Like Mighty Foot Lights—burned The Red"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15355"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15355,
        ""poem.id"": 15355,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Heart Has Narrow Banks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15356"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15356,
        ""poem.id"": 15356,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Months Have Ends—the Years—a Knot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15357"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15357,
        ""poem.id"": 15357,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:21:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There is no Silence in the Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There is no Silence in the Earth - so silentAs that enduredWhich uttered, would discourage NatureAnd haunt the World."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15358"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15358,
        ""poem.id"": 15358,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Saw The Wind Within Her"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I saw the wind within herI knew it blew for me —But she must buy my shelterI asked Humility"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15359"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15359,
        ""poem.id"": 15359,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Bet With Every Wind That Blew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I bet with every Wind that blewTill Nature in chagrinEmployed a Fact to visit meAnd scuttle my Balloon -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15360"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15360,
        ""poem.id"": 15360,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Slow The Wind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""How slow the Wind - how slow the sea - how late their Fathers be!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15361"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15361,
        ""poem.id"": 15361,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Wind That Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Wind that roseThough not a LeafIn any Forest stirredBut with itself did cold engageBeyond the Realm of Bird - A Wind that woke a lone DelightLike Separation's SwellRestored in Arctic ConfidenceTo the Invisible -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15362"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15362,
        ""poem.id"": 15362,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A chilly Peace infests the Grass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A chilly Peace infests the GrassThe Sun respectful lies - Not any Trance of industryThese shadows scrutinize - Whose Allies go no more astrayFor service or for Glee - But all mankind deliver hereFrom whatsoever sea -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15363"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15363,
        ""poem.id"": 15363,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Drowning is not so pitiful"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/31/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abode Where hope and he part company,— For he is grasped of God. The Maker's cordial visage, However good to see, Is shunned, we must admit it, Like an adversity."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15364"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15364,
        ""poem.id"": 15364,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Butterfly's Assumption Gown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/13/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Butterfly's Assumption GownIn Chrysoprase Apartments hungThis afternoon put on - How condescending to descendAnd be of Buttercups the friendIn a New England Town -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15365"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15365,
        ""poem.id"": 15365,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Savior Must Have Been A Docile Gentleman (1487)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Savior must have beenA docile Gentleman—To come so far so cold a DayFor little Fellowmen—The Road to BethlehemSince He and I were BoysWas leveled, but for that ‘twould beA rugged Billion Miles—"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15366"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15366,
        ""poem.id"": 15366,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ll Send The Feather From My Hat!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15367"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15367,
        ""poem.id"": 15367,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My First Well Day—since Many Ill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15368"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15368,
        ""poem.id"": 15368,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wert Thou But Ill—that I Might Show Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15369"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15369,
        ""poem.id"": 15369,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Won'T Frown Always—some Sweet Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15370"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15370,
        ""poem.id"": 15370,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Just As He Spoke It From His Hands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15371"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15371,
        ""poem.id"": 15371,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:22:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Robin For The Crumb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15372"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15372,
        ""poem.id"": 15372,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Customary As We Part"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15373"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15373,
        ""poem.id"": 15373,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Removed From Accident Of Loss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15374"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15374,
        ""poem.id"": 15374,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If What We Could&Mdash;Were What We Would"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15375"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15375,
        ""poem.id"": 15375,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Silken Speech And Specious Shoe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15376"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15376,
        ""poem.id"": 15376,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The World&Mdash;Stands&Mdash;Solemner&Mdash;To Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15377"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15377,
        ""poem.id"": 15377,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sometimes with the Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Sometimes with the HeartSeldom with the SoulScarcer once with the MightFew - love at all."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15378"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15378,
        ""poem.id"": 15378,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death is like the insect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/22/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Death is like the insectMenacing the tree,Competent to kill it,But decoyed may be.Bait it with the balsam,Seek it with the saw,Baffle, if it cost youEverything you are.Then, if it have burrowedOut of reach of skill - Wring the tree and leave it,'Tis the vermin's will."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15379"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15379,
        ""poem.id"": 15379,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Noon—is The Hinge Of Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15380"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15380,
        ""poem.id"": 15380,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""While Asters&Mdash;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15381"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15381,
        ""poem.id"": 15381,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Care The Dead, For Chanticleer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15382"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15382,
        ""poem.id"": 15382,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Court Is Far Away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15383"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15383,
        ""poem.id"": 15383,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:23:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Like Her The Saints Retire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15384"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15384,
        ""poem.id"": 15384,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Tolling Bell I Ask The Cause?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15385"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15385,
        ""poem.id"": 15385,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Heaven Vests For Each"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15386"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15386,
        ""poem.id"": 15386,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sweetest Heresy Received"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15387"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15387,
        ""poem.id"": 15387,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Bells No More Affright The Morn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15388"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15388,
        ""poem.id"": 15388,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Merit Hath The Worst"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15389"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15389,
        ""poem.id"": 15389,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A June When Corn Is Cut"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15390"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15390,
        ""poem.id"": 15390,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Met As Sparks—diverging Flints"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15391"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15391,
        ""poem.id"": 15391,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Bauble Was Preferred Of Bees"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15392"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15392,
        ""poem.id"": 15392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mute Thy Coronation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15393"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15393,
        ""poem.id"": 15393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Put Us Far Apart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15394"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15394,
        ""poem.id"": 15394,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Could Hope Inspect Her Basis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Could Hope inspect her BasisHer Craft were done - Has a fictitious CharterOr it has none - Balked in the vastest instanceBut to renew - Felled by but one assassin - Prosperity -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15395"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15395,
        ""poem.id"": 15395,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Noticed People Disappeared"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I noticed People disappearedWhen but a little child - Supposed they visited remoteOr settled Regions wild - But did because they diedA Fact withheld the little child -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15396"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15396,
        ""poem.id"": 15396,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Would Never Be Common—more—i Said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15397"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15397,
        ""poem.id"": 15397,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There's Something Quieter Than Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15398"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15398,
        ""poem.id"": 15398,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:24:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Dust, And Its Feature"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15399"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15399,
        ""poem.id"": 15399,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Giants Know, With Lesser Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15400"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15400,
        ""poem.id"": 15400,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She's Happy, With A New Content"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15401"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15401,
        ""poem.id"": 15401,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Crowd That Has Occurred"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15402"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15402,
        ""poem.id"": 15402,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Consciousness, Her Awful Mate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15403"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15403,
        ""poem.id"": 15403,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Ask But Our Delight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15404"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15404,
        ""poem.id"": 15404,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ve None To Tell Me To But Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15405"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15405,
        ""poem.id"": 15405,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Show Is Not The Show,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15406"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15406,
        ""poem.id"": 15406,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Heat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15407"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15407,
        ""poem.id"": 15407,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Thought Beneath So Slight A Film"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15408"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15408,
        ""poem.id"": 15408,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Martyr Poets—did Not Tell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15409"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15409,
        ""poem.id"": 15409,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is An Arid Pleasure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15410"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15410,
        ""poem.id"": 15410,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Snow That Never Drifts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Snow that never drifts - The transient, fragrant snowThat comes a single time a YearIs softly driving now - So thorough in the TreeAt night beneath the starThat it was February's FootExperience would swear - Like Winter as a FaceWe stern and former knewRepaired of all but LonelinessBy Nature's Alibit - Were every storm so spiceThe Value could not be - We buy with contrast - Pang is goodAs near as memory -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15411"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15411,
        ""poem.id"": 15411,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Out Of Sight? What Of That?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15412"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15412,
        ""poem.id"": 15412,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Zeroes—taught Us—phosphorous"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15413"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15413,
        ""poem.id"": 15413,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Miss Her, Not Because We See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15414"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15414,
        ""poem.id"": 15414,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:25:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Spirit Is The Conscious Ear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15415"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15415,
        ""poem.id"": 15415,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hollows Round His Eager Eyes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15416"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15416,
        ""poem.id"": 15416,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We See&Mdash;Comparatively"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15417"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15417,
        ""poem.id"": 15417,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Those Who Have Been In The Grave The Longest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15418"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15418,
        ""poem.id"": 15418,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jesus! Thy Crucifix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15419"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15419,
        ""poem.id"": 15419,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spring comes on the World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/5/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Spring comes on the World - I sight the Aprils - Hueless to me until thou comeAs, till the BeeBlossoms stand negative,Touched to ConditionsBy a Hum."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15420"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15420,
        ""poem.id"": 15420,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Day That I Was Crowned"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15421"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15421,
        ""poem.id"": 15421,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Who In Himself Believes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15422"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15422,
        ""poem.id"": 15422,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not Probable—the Barest Chance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15423"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15423,
        ""poem.id"": 15423,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shells From The Coast Mistaking"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15424"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15424,
        ""poem.id"": 15424,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This&Mdash;Is The Land&Mdash;The Sunset Washes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15425"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15425,
        ""poem.id"": 15425,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Sloop of Amber slips away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/9/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A Sloop of Amber slips awayUpon an Ether Sea,And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar,The Son of Ecstasy -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15426"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15426,
        ""poem.id"": 15426,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Want—it Pleaded—all Its Life—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15427"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15427,
        ""poem.id"": 15427,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Night Was Wide, And Furnished Scant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15428"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15428,
        ""poem.id"": 15428,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The First Day That I Was A Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15429"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15429,
        ""poem.id"": 15429,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:26:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Morning After Woe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15430"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15430,
        ""poem.id"": 15430,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If He Were Living—dare I Ask"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15431"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15431,
        ""poem.id"": 15431,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dust Behind I Strove To Join"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15432"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15432,
        ""poem.id"": 15432,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Found My Being—set It Up"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15433"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15433,
        ""poem.id"": 15433,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Good To Hide, And Hear 'Em Hunt!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15434"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15434,
        ""poem.id"": 15434,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Outstripped Time With But A Bout"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15435"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15435,
        ""poem.id"": 15435,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Hang Our Head&Mdash;Ostensibly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15436"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15436,
        ""poem.id"": 15436,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If She Had Been The Mistletoe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15437"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15437,
        ""poem.id"": 15437,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Must Be A Woe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15438"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15438,
        ""poem.id"": 15438,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Midsummer, Was It, When They Died"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15439"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15439,
        ""poem.id"": 15439,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of All The Souls That Stand Create"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15440"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15440,
        ""poem.id"": 15440,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Only A Shrine, But Mine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15441"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15441,
        ""poem.id"": 15441,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Publication—is The Auction"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15442"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15442,
        ""poem.id"": 15442,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whose Cheek Is This?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15443"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15443,
        ""poem.id"": 15443,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:27:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Had The Glory—that Will Do"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15444"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15444,
        ""poem.id"": 15444,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Our Little Kinsmen—after Rain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15445"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15445,
        ""poem.id"": 15445,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What I See Not, I Better See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15446"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15446,
        ""poem.id"": 15446,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sexton! My Master's Sleeping Here"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15447"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15447,
        ""poem.id"": 15447,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Those Fair—fictitious People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15448"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15448,
        ""poem.id"": 15448,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's Thoughts—and Just One Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15449"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15449,
        ""poem.id"": 15449,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rehearsal To Ourselves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15450"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15450,
        ""poem.id"": 15450,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Butterfly In Honored Dust"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/13/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Butterfly in honored DustAssuredly will lieBut none will pass the CatacombSo chastened as the Fly -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15451"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15451,
        ""poem.id"": 15451,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Our Share Of Night To Bear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15452"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15452,
        ""poem.id"": 15452,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Face I Carry With Me—last"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15453"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15453,
        ""poem.id"": 15453,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ve Heard An Organ Talk, Sometimes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15454"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15454,
        ""poem.id"": 15454,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ve Nothing Else—to Bring, You Know"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15455"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15455,
        ""poem.id"": 15455,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Snow Thou Comest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In snow thou comest - Thou shalt go with the resuming ground,The sweet derision of the crow,And Glee's advancing sound.In fear thou comest - Thou shalt go at such a gait of joyThat man anew embark to liveUpon the depth of thee."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15456"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15456,
        ""poem.id"": 15456,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:28:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15457"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15457,
        ""poem.id"": 15457,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A little Madness in the Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/5/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A little Madness in the SpringIs wholesome even for the King,But God be with the Clown - Who ponders this tremendous scene - This whole Experiment of Green - As if it were his own!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15458"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15458,
        ""poem.id"": 15458,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights -"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/11/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights - When people have put out the LightsAnd everything that has an InnCloses the shutter and goes in - How pompous the Wind must feel NoonsStepping to incorporeal TunesCorrecting errors of the skyAnd clarifying sceneryHow mighty the Wind must feel MornsEncamping on a thousand dawnsEspousing each and spurning allThen soaring to his Temple Tall -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15459"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15459,
        ""poem.id"": 15459,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""None Can Experience Sting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15460"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15460,
        ""poem.id"": 15460,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of All The Sounds Despatched Abroad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15461"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15461,
        ""poem.id"": 15461,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pigmy Seraphs—gone Astray"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15462"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15462,
        ""poem.id"": 15462,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Morning—means"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15463"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15463,
        ""poem.id"": 15463,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:29:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Ships Of Purple—gently Toss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15464"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15464,
        ""poem.id"": 15464,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Dwelleth In The Ground"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15465"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15465,
        ""poem.id"": 15465,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Missing All—prevented Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15466"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15466,
        ""poem.id"": 15466,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tho' I Get Home How Late—how Late"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15467"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15467,
        ""poem.id"": 15467,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Once More, My Now Bewildered Dove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15468"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15468,
        ""poem.id"": 15468,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Falling Timbers Buried"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15469"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15469,
        ""poem.id"": 15469,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tho' My Destiny Be Fustian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15470"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15470,
        ""poem.id"": 15470,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Finished Feeling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15471"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15471,
        ""poem.id"": 15471,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Nature Smiles - The Mother Must"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""If Nature smiles - the Mother mustI'm sure, at many a whimOf Her eccentric Family - Is She so much to blame?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15472"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15472,
        ""poem.id"": 15472,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Make His Crescent Fill Or Lack"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15473"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15473,
        ""poem.id"": 15473,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15474"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15474,
        ""poem.id"": 15474,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:30:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Eye Is Fuller Than My Vase"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15475"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15475,
        ""poem.id"": 15475,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Know Just How He Suffered—Would Be Dear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15476"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15476,
        ""poem.id"": 15476,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Called Me To The Window, For"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15477"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15477,
        ""poem.id"": 15477,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Perhaps I Asked Too Large"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15478"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15478,
        ""poem.id"": 15478,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Future—never Spoke"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15479"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15479,
        ""poem.id"": 15479,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Antiquated Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""An Antiquated TreeIs cherished of the CrowBecause that Junior Foliage is disrespectful nowTo venerable BirdsWhose Corporation CoatWould decorate Oblivion'sRemotest Consulate."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15480"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15480,
        ""poem.id"": 15480,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His Heart Was Darker Than The Starless Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/25/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""His Heart was darker than the starless nightFor that there is a mornBut in this black ReceptacleCan be no Bode of Dawn"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15481"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15481,
        ""poem.id"": 15481,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Earth Has Many Keys"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/29/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The earth has many keys,Where melody is notIs the unknown peninsula.Beauty is nature's fact.But witness for her land,And witness for her sea,The cricket is her utmostOf elegy to me."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15482"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15482,
        ""poem.id"": 15482,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How fits his Umber Coat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/6/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""How fits his Umber CoatThe Tailor of the Nut?Combined without a seamLike Raiment of a Dream - Who spun the Auburn Cloth?Computed how the girth?The Chestnut aged growsIn those primeval Clothes - We know that we are wise - Accomplished in Surprise - Yet by this Countryman - This nature - how undone!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15489"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15489,
        ""poem.id"": 15489,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Often Passed The Village"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15491"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15491,
        ""poem.id"": 15491,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Well I Knew Her Not"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15494"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15494,
        ""poem.id"": 15494,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Lay As If At Play"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15499"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15499,
        ""poem.id"": 15499,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Like Flowers, That Heard The News Of Dews"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15500"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15500,
        ""poem.id"": 15500,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Parts Himself—like Leaves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15501"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15501,
        ""poem.id"": 15501,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:31:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Smiling Back From Coronation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15502"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15502,
        ""poem.id"": 15502,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Wheel Is In The Dark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15503"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15503,
        ""poem.id"": 15503,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Just Lost, When I Was Saved!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15504"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15504,
        ""poem.id"": 15504,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Notice Gave She, But A Change"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15507"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15507,
        ""poem.id"": 15507,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Gave Away His Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15508"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15508,
        ""poem.id"": 15508,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Patience—has A Quiet Outer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15509"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15509,
        ""poem.id"": 15509,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Soul—accused Me—and I Quailed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15510"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15510,
        ""poem.id"": 15510,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15511"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15511,
        ""poem.id"": 15511,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Most She Touched Me By Her Muteness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15512"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15512,
        ""poem.id"": 15512,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The One Who Could Repeat The Summer Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15513"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15513,
        ""poem.id"": 15513,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15514"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15514,
        ""poem.id"": 15514,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""More Life—went Out—when He Went"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15515"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15515,
        ""poem.id"": 15515,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Butterfly Upon The Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/13/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Butterfly upon the Sky,That doesn't know its NameAnd hasn't any tax to payAnd hasn't any HomeIs just as high as you and I,And higher, I believe,So soar away and never sighAnd that's the way to grieve -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15516"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15516,
        ""poem.id"": 15516,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:32:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prayer Is The Little Implement"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15518"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15518,
        ""poem.id"": 15518,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gratitude—is Not The Mention"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15519"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15519,
        ""poem.id"": 15519,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Purple—is Fashionable Twice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15520"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15520,
        ""poem.id"": 15520,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Reward For Being, Was This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15521"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15521,
        ""poem.id"": 15521,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In This Short Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/3/2013"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15522"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15522,
        ""poem.id"": 15522,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Birds Reported From The South"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15523"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15523,
        ""poem.id"": 15523,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Veins Of Other Flowers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15524"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15524,
        ""poem.id"": 15524,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Proud She Was To Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15525"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15525,
        ""poem.id"": 15525,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Proud Of My Broken Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/22/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15526"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15526,
        ""poem.id"": 15526,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Red—blaze—is The Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15527"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15527,
        ""poem.id"": 15527,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hallowing Of Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15528"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15528,
        ""poem.id"": 15528,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Renunciation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15529"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15529,
        ""poem.id"": 15529,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Matter—now—sweet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15530"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15530,
        ""poem.id"": 15530,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:33:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Day Undressed&Mdash;Herself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15531"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15531,
        ""poem.id"": 15531,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Morn By Men Unseen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15532"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15532,
        ""poem.id"": 15532,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Should Have Been Too Glad, I See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15533"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15533,
        ""poem.id"": 15533,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Katie Walks, This Simple Pair Accompany Her Side"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15534"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15534,
        ""poem.id"": 15534,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Over And Over, Like A Tune"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15535"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15535,
        ""poem.id"": 15535,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sunrise Runs For Both"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15536"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15536,
        ""poem.id"": 15536,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Strained My Faith"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15537"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15537,
        ""poem.id"": 15537,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun Is Gay Or Stark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15538"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15538,
        ""poem.id"": 15538,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Read—sweet—how Others—strove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15539"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15539,
        ""poem.id"": 15539,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Could Die—to Know"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15540"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15540,
        ""poem.id"": 15540,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Glad We Are—a Stranger'D Deem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15541"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15541,
        ""poem.id"": 15541,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Little I—could Care For Pearls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15542"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15542,
        ""poem.id"": 15542,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Anguish—in A Crowd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15543"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15543,
        ""poem.id"": 15543,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:34:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Staked Her Feathers—gained An Arc"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15544"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15544,
        ""poem.id"": 15544,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Showed Her Heights She Never Saw"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15545"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15545,
        ""poem.id"": 15545,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some Such Butterfly Be Seen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15546"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15546,
        ""poem.id"": 15546,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lonesome For They Know Not What"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15547"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15547,
        ""poem.id"": 15547,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"470\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/6/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""How good—to be alive! How infinite—to be Alive—two-fold—The Birth I had And this—besides, in—Thee!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15548"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15548,
        ""poem.id"": 15548,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What If I Say I Shall Not Wait!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15549"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15549,
        ""poem.id"": 15549,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Time Feels So Vast That Were It Not"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15550"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15550,
        ""poem.id"": 15550,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Rack Can Torture Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15551"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15551,
        ""poem.id"": 15551,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not In This World To See His Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15552"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15552,
        ""poem.id"": 15552,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Whole Of It Came Not At Once"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15553"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15553,
        ""poem.id"": 15553,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Put Up My Lute!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15554"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15554,
        ""poem.id"": 15554,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's Such A Little Thing To Weep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15555"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15555,
        ""poem.id"": 15555,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15556"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15556,
        ""poem.id"": 15556,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If This Is \"Fading\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15557"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15557,
        ""poem.id"": 15557,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:35:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Soul's Distinct Connection"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15558"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15558,
        ""poem.id"": 15558,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not All Die Early, Dying Young"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15559"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15559,
        ""poem.id"": 15559,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Tie My Hat—i Crease My Shawl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15560"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15560,
        ""poem.id"": 15560,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Doomed—regard The Sunrise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15561"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15561,
        ""poem.id"": 15561,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Rose—because He Sank"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15562"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15562,
        ""poem.id"": 15562,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Told A Homely Tale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15563"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15563,
        ""poem.id"": 15563,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His Feet Are Shod With Gauze"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15564"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15564,
        ""poem.id"": 15564,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His Bill An Auger Is"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15565"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15565,
        ""poem.id"": 15565,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Witchcraft Was Hung, In History"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Twas such a little - little boatThat toddled down the bay!'Twas such a gallant - gallant seaThat beckoned it away!'Twas such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the Coast - Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15566"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15566,
        ""poem.id"": 15566,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Drop, That Wrestles In The Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15567"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15567,
        ""poem.id"": 15567,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Pain For Peace Prepares"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15568"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15568,
        ""poem.id"": 15568,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Savior! I'Ve No One Else To Tell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15569"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15569,
        ""poem.id"": 15569,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis True—they Shut Me In The Cold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15570"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15570,
        ""poem.id"": 15570,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:36:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Morning—is The Place For Dew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15571"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15571,
        ""poem.id"": 15571,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Think The Hemlock Likes To Stand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15572"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15572,
        ""poem.id"": 15572,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not \"Revelation\"&Mdash;'Tis&Mdash;That Waits"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15573"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15573,
        ""poem.id"": 15573,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Sunrise&Mdash;Little Maid&Mdash;Hast Thou"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15574"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15574,
        ""poem.id"": 15574,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Got So I Could Take His Name"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15575"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15575,
        ""poem.id"": 15575,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If He Dissolve—then—there Is Nothing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15576"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15576,
        ""poem.id"": 15576,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Portraits Are To Daily Faces"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15577"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15577,
        ""poem.id"": 15577,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Was The Slightest In The House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15578"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15578,
        ""poem.id"": 15578,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis One By One — The Father Counts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15579"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15579,
        ""poem.id"": 15579,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Fought Like Those Who'Ve Nought To Lose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15580"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15580,
        ""poem.id"": 15580,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Being Is A Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15581"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15581,
        ""poem.id"": 15581,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Cover Thee—sweet Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15582"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15582,
        ""poem.id"": 15582,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Good Night, Because We Must"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15583"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15583,
        ""poem.id"": 15583,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Thirst At First—'Tis Nature's Act"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15584"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15584,
        ""poem.id"": 15584,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:37:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Should You But Fail At—sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15585"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15585,
        ""poem.id"": 15585,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ourselves Were Wed One Summer—dear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15586"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15586,
        ""poem.id"": 15586,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Good Will Of A Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15587"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15587,
        ""poem.id"": 15587,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Joy To Have Merited The Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15588"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15588,
        ""poem.id"": 15588,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Perhaps You'D Like To Buy A Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15589"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15589,
        ""poem.id"": 15589,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Woodpecker"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15590"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15590,
        ""poem.id"": 15590,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Bore It Till The Simple Veins"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15591"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15591,
        ""poem.id"": 15591,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Pray&Mdash;To Heaven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15592"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15592,
        ""poem.id"": 15592,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yesterday Is History"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Yesterday is History,'Tis so far away - Yesterday is Poetry - 'Tis Philosophy - Yesterday is mystery - Where it is TodayWhile we shrewdly speculateFlutter both away"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15593"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15593,
        ""poem.id"": 15593,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wolfe Demanded During Dying"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15594"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15594,
        ""poem.id"": 15594,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her Sweet Turn To Leave The Homestead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15595"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15595,
        ""poem.id"": 15595,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Heart That Broke So Long"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15596"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15596,
        ""poem.id"": 15596,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ll Clutch—and Clutch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15597"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15597,
        ""poem.id"": 15597,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:38:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Interrupt His Yellow Plan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15598"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15598,
        ""poem.id"": 15598,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Have A King, Who Does Not Speak"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15599"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15599,
        ""poem.id"": 15599,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Period Had Come For Prayer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15600"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15600,
        ""poem.id"": 15600,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Well That I Can Live Without"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15601"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15601,
        ""poem.id"": 15601,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Opposites&Mdash;Entice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15602"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15602,
        ""poem.id"": 15602,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Had Some Things That I Called Mine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15603"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15603,
        ""poem.id"": 15603,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Went As Quiet As The Dew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15604"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15604,
        ""poem.id"": 15604,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Think To Live—may Be A Bliss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15605"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15605,
        ""poem.id"": 15605,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Was Small, A Woman Died"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15606"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15606,
        ""poem.id"": 15606,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Would I Give To See His Face?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15607"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15607,
        ""poem.id"": 15607,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ideals Are The Fairly Oil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15609"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15609,
        ""poem.id"": 15609,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Battlefield"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/25/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15610"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15610,
        ""poem.id"": 15610,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Through The Strait Pass Of Suffering"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15611"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15611,
        ""poem.id"": 15611,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ve Known A Heaven, Like A Tent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15612"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15612,
        ""poem.id"": 15612,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:39:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Over The Fence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15613"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15613,
        ""poem.id"": 15613,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Have Seen The Sun Emerge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15615"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15615,
        ""poem.id"": 15615,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fingers Of The Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15616"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15616,
        ""poem.id"": 15616,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Cannot Be Ashamed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15617"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15617,
        ""poem.id"": 15617,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We—bee And I—live By The Quaffing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15618"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15618,
        ""poem.id"": 15618,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Why Make It Doubt—it Hurts It So"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15619"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15619,
        ""poem.id"": 15619,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Murmur Of A Bee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15620"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15620,
        ""poem.id"": 15620,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wind Didn'T Come From The Orchard—today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15621"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15621,
        ""poem.id"": 15621,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Man Can Compass A Despair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15622"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15622,
        ""poem.id"": 15622,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Chasm, Sweet, Upon My Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15623"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15623,
        ""poem.id"": 15623,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Life Of So Much Consequence!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15624"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15624,
        ""poem.id"": 15624,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Any Sink, Assure That This, Now Standing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15625"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15625,
        ""poem.id"": 15625,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Had Not Minded—walls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15626"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15626,
        ""poem.id"": 15626,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Gained It So"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15627"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15627,
        ""poem.id"": 15627,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:40:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Only God—detect The Sorrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15628"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15628,
        ""poem.id"": 15628,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Partake As Doth The Bee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15629"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15629,
        ""poem.id"": 15629,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Publication"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15632"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15632,
        ""poem.id"": 15632,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Is The Land The Sunset Washes,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15633"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15633,
        ""poem.id"": 15633,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Were 'The Father And The Son'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15634"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15634,
        ""poem.id"": 15634,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Met A King This Afternoon!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15635"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15635,
        ""poem.id"": 15635,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mine—by The Right Of The White Election!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15636"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15636,
        ""poem.id"": 15636,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Me! Come! My Dazzled Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15637"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15637,
        ""poem.id"": 15637,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dying At My Music"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/2/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Dying at my music!Bubble! Bubble!Hold me till the Octave's run!Quick! Burst the Windows!Ritardando!Phials left, and the Sun!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15638"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15638,
        ""poem.id"": 15638,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Went Up A Year This Evening!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15639"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15639,
        ""poem.id"": 15639,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Thou Art—that—is Home"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15640"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15640,
        ""poem.id"": 15640,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Cross Till I Am Weary"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15641"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15641,
        ""poem.id"": 15641,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Blame Be My Side—forfeit Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15642"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15642,
        ""poem.id"": 15642,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Province Of The Saved"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15643"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15643,
        ""poem.id"": 15643,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:41:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Malay—took The Pearl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15644"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15644,
        ""poem.id"": 15644,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun Kept Stooping—stooping"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15645"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15645,
        ""poem.id"": 15645,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Pay—in Satin Cash"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15646"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15646,
        ""poem.id"": 15646,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Times—we Parted—breath—and I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15647"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15647,
        ""poem.id"": 15647,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If The Foolish, Call Them \"Flowers\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15648"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15648,
        ""poem.id"": 15648,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With A Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I hide myself within my flower,That wearing on your breast,You, unsuspecting, wear me too -And angels know the rest.I hide myself within my flower,That, fading from your vase,You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15649"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15649,
        ""poem.id"": 15649,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Recollecting Were Forgetting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15650"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15650,
        ""poem.id"": 15650,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's Easy To Invent A Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15651"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15651,
        ""poem.id"": 15651,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Put The Belt Around My Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15652"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15652,
        ""poem.id"": 15652,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15653"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15653,
        ""poem.id"": 15653,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""May-Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Pink, small, and punctual,Aromatic, low,Covert in April,Candid in May, Dear to the moss,Known by the knoll,Next to the robinIn every human soul. Bold little beauty,Bedecked with thee,Nature forswearsAntiquity."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15654,
        ""poem.id"": 15654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Lived On Dread; To Those Who Know"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15655,
        ""poem.id"": 15655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Could Suffice For Him, I Knew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15656,
        ""poem.id"": 15656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:42:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whether My Bark Went Down At Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15657,
        ""poem.id"": 15657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Musicians Wrestle Everywhere"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15658,
        ""poem.id"": 15658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Good&Mdash;The Looking Back On Grief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15659,
        ""poem.id"": 15659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The World&Mdash;Feels Dusty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15660,
        ""poem.id"": 15660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Chemical Conviction"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15661,
        ""poem.id"": 15661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Light Is Sufficient To Itself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15662,
        ""poem.id"": 15662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Inn Is This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15663,
        ""poem.id"": 15663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sleep Is Supposed To Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15664"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15664,
        ""poem.id"": 15664,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Judge Is Like The Owl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15665,
        ""poem.id"": 15665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Service Without Hope"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15666,
        ""poem.id"": 15666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Beggar Lad&Mdash;Dies Early"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15667,
        ""poem.id"": 15667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Read My Sentence—steadily"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15668"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15668,
        ""poem.id"": 15668,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dying Need But Little, Dear,--"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15669,
        ""poem.id"": 15669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Manner Of Its Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15670"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15670,
        ""poem.id"": 15670,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:43:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Through The Dark Sod—as Education"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15671,
        ""poem.id"": 15671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On This Wondrous Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15672,
        ""poem.id"": 15672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Birds Begun At Four O'Clock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15673,
        ""poem.id"": 15673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Papa Above!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15674,
        ""poem.id"": 15674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Outer—from The Inner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15675,
        ""poem.id"": 15675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Bashful When I Spied Her!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15676,
        ""poem.id"": 15676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Many A Phrase Has The English Language"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15677,
        ""poem.id"": 15677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Is A Blossom Of The Brain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15678,
        ""poem.id"": 15678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Have Any Like Myself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15680"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15680,
        ""poem.id"": 15680,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Like Eyes That Looked On Wastes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15681"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15681,
        ""poem.id"": 15681,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Bronze—and Blaze"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15682"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15682,
        ""poem.id"": 15682,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Don'T Cry—tim And I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15683,
        ""poem.id"": 15683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's Like The Light, --"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15684,
        ""poem.id"": 15684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:44:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heart, Not So Heavy As Mine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15685,
        ""poem.id"": 15685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How firm Eternity must look"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""How firm Eternity must lookTo crumbling men like meThe only Adamant EstateIn all Identity - How mighty to the insecureThy PhysiognomyTo whom not any Face cohere - Unless concealed in thee"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15686"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15686,
        ""poem.id"": 15686,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Set Its Sun In Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15687"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15687,
        ""poem.id"": 15687,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Body Grows Without"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15688"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15688,
        ""poem.id"": 15688,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15689"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15689,
        ""poem.id"": 15689,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know Lives, I Could Miss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15690"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15690,
        ""poem.id"": 15690,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of Course—i Prayed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15691"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15691,
        ""poem.id"": 15691,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When We Stand On The Tops Of Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15692"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15692,
        ""poem.id"": 15692,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's Coming—the Postponeless Creature"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15693"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15693,
        ""poem.id"": 15693,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nature—sometimes Sears A Sapling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15694"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15694,
        ""poem.id"": 15694,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fate Slew Him, But He Did Not Drop"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FATE slew him, but he did not drop;She felled—he did not fall—Impaled him on her fiercest stakes—He neutralized them all.She stung him, sapped his firm advance,But, when her worst was done,And he, unmoved, regarded her,Acknowledged him a man."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15695"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15695,
        ""poem.id"": 15695,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Color Of A Queen, Is This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15696"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15696,
        ""poem.id"": 15696,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Hear An Oriole Sing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15697"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15697,
        ""poem.id"": 15697,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sunset Stopped On Cottages"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15698"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15698,
        ""poem.id"": 15698,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:45:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Myself Was Formed—a Carpenter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15699"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15699,
        ""poem.id"": 15699,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know Where Wells Grow—droughtless Wells"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15700"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15700,
        ""poem.id"": 15700,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Is—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15701"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15701,
        ""poem.id"": 15701,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Keep My Pledge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15702"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15702,
        ""poem.id"": 15702,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Breathed Enough To Learn The Trick,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15703"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15703,
        ""poem.id"": 15703,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ribbons Of The Year"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15705"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15705,
        ""poem.id"": 15705,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Lived On Dread"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15706"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15706,
        ""poem.id"": 15706,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Made Slow Riches But My Gain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15707"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15707,
        ""poem.id"": 15707,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Dropped Like Flakes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15708"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15708,
        ""poem.id"": 15708,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Diamonds Are A Legend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15709"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15709,
        ""poem.id"": 15709,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Precious To Me—she Still Shall Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15710"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15710,
        ""poem.id"": 15710,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis So Appalling&Mdash;It Exhilarates"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15711"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15711,
        ""poem.id"": 15711,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pain Has An Element"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15712"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15712,
        ""poem.id"": 15712,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:46:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Soul Unto Itself (683)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15713"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15713,
        ""poem.id"": 15713,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Much Summer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15714"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15714,
        ""poem.id"": 15714,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Went To Heaven,--"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15715"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15715,
        ""poem.id"": 15715,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Never Lost, Are Unprepared"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15716"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15716,
        ""poem.id"": 15716,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If It Had No Pencil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15717"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15717,
        ""poem.id"": 15717,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Like Some Old Fashioned Miracle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15718"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15718,
        ""poem.id"": 15718,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15719"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15719,
        ""poem.id"": 15719,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Cannot Buy It—'Tis Not Sold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15720"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15720,
        ""poem.id"": 15720,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15721"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15721,
        ""poem.id"": 15721,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Great Caesar! Condescend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15722"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15722,
        ""poem.id"": 15722,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Power To Be True To You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15729"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15729,
        ""poem.id"": 15729,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Would Have Starved A Gnat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15731"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15731,
        ""poem.id"": 15731,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Night Is Almost Done"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15732"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15732,
        ""poem.id"": 15732,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:47:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Lose—because We Win"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15742"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15742,
        ""poem.id"": 15742,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One And One—are One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15743"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15743,
        ""poem.id"": 15743,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Never Told The Buried Gold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15744"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15744,
        ""poem.id"": 15744,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Hoped, I Recollect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15745"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15745,
        ""poem.id"": 15745,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose Did Caper On Her Cheek"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15746"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15746,
        ""poem.id"": 15746,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Like March, His Shoes Are Purple,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15747"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15747,
        ""poem.id"": 15747,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Should Not Mind So Small A Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15748"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15748,
        ""poem.id"": 15748,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Glowing Is Her Bonnet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15749"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15749,
        ""poem.id"": 15749,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Die—takes Just A Little While"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15750"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15750,
        ""poem.id"": 15750,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Saw No Way—the Heavens Were Stitched"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15751"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15751,
        ""poem.id"": 15751,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Good Night! Which Put The Candle Out?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15752"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15752,
        ""poem.id"": 15752,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Play At Riches—to Appease"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15753"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15753,
        ""poem.id"": 15753,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Word"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15754"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15754,
        ""poem.id"": 15754,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:48:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pedigree Of Honey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15755"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15755,
        ""poem.id"": 15755,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know A Place Where Summer Strives"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15756"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15756,
        ""poem.id"": 15756,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Tend My Flowers For Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15757"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15757,
        ""poem.id"": 15757,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Our Lives Are Swiss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15759"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15759,
        ""poem.id"": 15759,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M Saying Every Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15760"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15760,
        ""poem.id"": 15760,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Learn The Transport By The Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15761"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15761,
        ""poem.id"": 15761,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heaven Has Different Signs—to Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15762"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15762,
        ""poem.id"": 15762,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her Sweet Weight On My Heart A Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15763"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15763,
        ""poem.id"": 15763,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Trees Like Tassels—hit—and Swung"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15764"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15764,
        ""poem.id"": 15764,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Faith Is Larger Than The Hills"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15765"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15765,
        ""poem.id"": 15765,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pain&Mdash;Expands The Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15766"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15766,
        ""poem.id"": 15766,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Difference Between Despair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15767"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15767,
        ""poem.id"": 15767,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her&Mdash;\"Last Poems\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15768"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15768,
        ""poem.id"": 15768,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Am Ashamed—i Hide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15769"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15769,
        ""poem.id"": 15769,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:49:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Promise This—when You Be Dying"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15770"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15770,
        ""poem.id"": 15770,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Touched Me, So I Live To Know"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15771"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15771,
        ""poem.id"": 15771,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Was Weak, And I Was Strong—then"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15772"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15772,
        ""poem.id"": 15772,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Shall Keep Singing!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15773"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15773,
        ""poem.id"": 15773,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun Kept Setting—setting—still"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15774"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15774,
        ""poem.id"": 15774,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Live With Him—i See His Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15775"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15775,
        ""poem.id"": 15775,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Winters Are So Short"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15776"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15776,
        ""poem.id"": 15776,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun And Moon Must Make Their Haste"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15777"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15777,
        ""poem.id"": 15777,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Sped As Petals Of A Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15778"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15778,
        ""poem.id"": 15778,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Ment To Find Her When I Came;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15779"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15779,
        ""poem.id"": 15779,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whose Are The Little Beds, I Asked"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15780"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15780,
        ""poem.id"": 15780,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mountain Sat Upon The Plain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15781"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15781,
        ""poem.id"": 15781,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Dignity Delays For All"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15782"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15782,
        ""poem.id"": 15782,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15783"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15783,
        ""poem.id"": 15783,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Robbed The Woods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15784"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15784,
        ""poem.id"": 15784,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:50:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Poets Light But Lamps"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15785"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15785,
        ""poem.id"": 15785,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poor Little Heart!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15786"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15786,
        ""poem.id"": 15786,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Portion Is Defeat—today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15787"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15787,
        ""poem.id"": 15787,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Forgot—and I—remembered"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15788"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15788,
        ""poem.id"": 15788,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Prayed, At First, A Little Girl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15789"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15789,
        ""poem.id"": 15789,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Feet Of People Walking Home"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15790"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15790,
        ""poem.id"": 15790,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Cried At Pity—not At Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15791"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15791,
        ""poem.id"": 15791,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Cautious, Scanned My Little Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15792"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15792,
        ""poem.id"": 15792,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I'M Lost&Mdash;Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15793"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15793,
        ""poem.id"": 15793,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Meant To Have But Modest Needs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15794"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15794,
        ""poem.id"": 15794,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Way I Read A Letter's—this"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15795"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15795,
        ""poem.id"": 15795,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Never Felt At Home—below"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15796"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15796,
        ""poem.id"": 15796,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:51:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Soft—cherubic Creatures"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15797"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15797,
        ""poem.id"": 15797,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Truth—is Stirless"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15798"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15798,
        ""poem.id"": 15798,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There's Been A Death In The Opposite House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15801"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15801,
        ""poem.id"": 15801,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Never Hear The Word 'Escape'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15802"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15802,
        ""poem.id"": 15802,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Fear A Man Of Frugal Speech"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15803"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15803,
        ""poem.id"": 15803,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Bring An Unaccustomed Wine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15804"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15804,
        ""poem.id"": 15804,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15805"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15805,
        ""poem.id"": 15805,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love—is That Later Thing Than Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15806"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15806,
        ""poem.id"": 15806,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Asked No Other Thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15807"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15807,
        ""poem.id"": 15807,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""God Is A Distant—stately Lover"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15808"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15808,
        ""poem.id"": 15808,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15809"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15809,
        ""poem.id"": 15809,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:52:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Have Never Seen \"Volcanoes\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15810"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15810,
        ""poem.id"": 15810,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Had I Not This, Or This, I Said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15811"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15811,
        ""poem.id"": 15811,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Knows How To Forget!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15813"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15813,
        ""poem.id"": 15813,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15814"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15814,
        ""poem.id"": 15814,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mama Never Forgets Her Birds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15815"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15815,
        ""poem.id"": 15815,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Friend Attacks My Friend!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15816"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15816,
        ""poem.id"": 15816,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I May Have It, When It's Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15817"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15817,
        ""poem.id"": 15817,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""God Permit Industrious Angels"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15818"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15818,
        ""poem.id"": 15818,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Till Death—is Narrow Loving"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15819"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15819,
        ""poem.id"": 15819,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Day Came Slow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15820"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15820,
        ""poem.id"": 15820,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Sick—to Wait—in Any Place—but Thine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15821"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15821,
        ""poem.id"": 15821,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Brain, Within Its Groove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15822"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15822,
        ""poem.id"": 15822,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""New Feet Within My Garden Go"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15823"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15823,
        ""poem.id"": 15823,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15824"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15824,
        ""poem.id"": 15824,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Robbed By Death—but That Was Easy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15825"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15825,
        ""poem.id"": 15825,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peace Is A Fiction Of Our Faith"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15826"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15826,
        ""poem.id"": 15826,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:53:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Noteless Men, And Pleiads, Stand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15827"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15827,
        ""poem.id"": 15827,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some Rainbow—coming From The Fair!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15828"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15828,
        ""poem.id"": 15828,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Woodpecker, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15829"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15829,
        ""poem.id"": 15829,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love—is Anterior To Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15830"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15830,
        ""poem.id"": 15830,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15831"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15831,
        ""poem.id"": 15831,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Love A Life Can Show Below"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15833"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15833,
        ""poem.id"": 15833,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Color Of The Grave Is Green"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15834"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15834,
        ""poem.id"": 15834,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Anybody's Friend Be Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15835"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15835,
        ""poem.id"": 15835,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Stole Them From A Bee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15836"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15836,
        ""poem.id"": 15836,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Only News I Know"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15838"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15838,
        ""poem.id"": 15838,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Haven'T Told My Garden Yet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15839"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15839,
        ""poem.id"": 15839,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Those I Loved Were Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15840"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15840,
        ""poem.id"": 15840,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Roses Cease To Bloom, Sir"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15841"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15841,
        ""poem.id"": 15841,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her Grace Is All She Has&Mdash;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15842"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15842,
        ""poem.id"": 15842,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Had A Guinea Golden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15844"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15844,
        ""poem.id"": 15844,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:54:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Only Ghost I Ever Saw"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15845"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15845,
        ""poem.id"": 15845,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On A Columnar Self"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15854"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15854,
        ""poem.id"": 15854,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Came To Buy A Smile—today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15856"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15856,
        ""poem.id"": 15856,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Learned—at Least—what Home Could Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15857"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15857,
        ""poem.id"": 15857,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Watched The Moon Around The House (629)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15858"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15858,
        ""poem.id"": 15858,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Can'T Tell You—but You Feel It"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15859"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15859,
        ""poem.id"": 15859,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Nosegays Are For Captives;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15860"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15860,
        ""poem.id"": 15860,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Daisy Follows Soft The Sun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15861"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15861,
        ""poem.id"": 15861,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15862"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15862,
        ""poem.id"": 15862,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Came A Day At Summer's Full"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15863"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15863,
        ""poem.id"": 15863,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Garden—like The Beach"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15864"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15864,
        ""poem.id"": 15864,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Test Of Love—is Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15865"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15865,
        ""poem.id"": 15865,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Died—this Was The Way She Died"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15866"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15866,
        ""poem.id"": 15866,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:55:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love&Mdash;Thou Art High"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15867"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15867,
        ""poem.id"": 15867,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know Some Lonely Houses Off The Road"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15868"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15868,
        ""poem.id"": 15868,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Send Two Sunsets"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15869"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15869,
        ""poem.id"": 15869,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Given In Marriage Unto Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15870"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15870,
        ""poem.id"": 15870,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Could Bring You Jewels—had I A Mind To"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15871"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15871,
        ""poem.id"": 15871,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Think The Longest Hour Of All"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15872"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15872,
        ""poem.id"": 15872,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""While It Is Alive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15873"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15873,
        ""poem.id"": 15873,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Skies Can'T Keep Their Secret!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15874"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15874,
        ""poem.id"": 15874,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun—just Touched The Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15875"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15875,
        ""poem.id"": 15875,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Lost A World - The Other Day!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15876"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15876,
        ""poem.id"": 15876,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Can Wade Grief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15877"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15877,
        ""poem.id"": 15877,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know That He Exists"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15879"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15879,
        ""poem.id"": 15879,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Worthiness Is All My Doubt"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15881"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15881,
        ""poem.id"": 15881,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some Things That Fly There Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15882"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15882,
        ""poem.id"": 15882,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:56:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Years Had Been From Home,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15883"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15883,
        ""poem.id"": 15883,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Without This—there Is Nought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15884"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15884,
        ""poem.id"": 15884,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Water Makes Many Beds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15885"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15885,
        ""poem.id"": 15885,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Went To Thank Her"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15886"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15886,
        ""poem.id"": 15886,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Make Me A Picture Of The Sun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15887"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15887,
        ""poem.id"": 15887,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nature And God—i Neither Knew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15888"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15888,
        ""poem.id"": 15888,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Came A Wind Like A Bugle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15889"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15889,
        ""poem.id"": 15889,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wind Tapped Like A Tired Man,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15890"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15890,
        ""poem.id"": 15890,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rest At Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15891"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15891,
        ""poem.id"": 15891,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Meant To Find Her When I Came"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15892"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15892,
        ""poem.id"": 15892,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M \"Wife\"&Mdash;I'Ve Finished That"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15894"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15894,
        ""poem.id"": 15894,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How The Old Mountains Drip With Sunset"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15895"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15895,
        ""poem.id"": 15895,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Soul Has Bandaged Moments"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15897"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15897,
        ""poem.id"": 15897,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Definition Of Beauty Is"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15898"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15898,
        ""poem.id"": 15898,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:57:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Safe In Their Alabaster Chambers,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15899"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15899,
        ""poem.id"": 15899,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Me Prove It Now—whoever Doubt"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15901"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15901,
        ""poem.id"": 15901,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Name—of It—is 'Autumn'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15902"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15902,
        ""poem.id"": 15902,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unto Like Story—trouble Has Enticed Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15903"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15903,
        ""poem.id"": 15903,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Slept Beneath A Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15904"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15904,
        ""poem.id"": 15904,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Chariot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/28/2011"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15906"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15906,
        ""poem.id"": 15906,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Like Trains Of Cars On Tracks Of Plush"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15908"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15908,
        ""poem.id"": 15908,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""God Made A Little Gentian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15909"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15909,
        ""poem.id"": 15909,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I See Thee Better—in The Dark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15910"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15910,
        ""poem.id"": 15910,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Had I Presumed To Hope"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15911"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15911,
        ""poem.id"": 15911,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Within My Reach!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15912"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15912,
        ""poem.id"": 15912,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Felt A Cleaving In My Mind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15913"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15913,
        ""poem.id"": 15913,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Envy Seas, Whereon He Rides"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15914"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15914,
        ""poem.id"": 15914,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:58:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Grass So Little Has To Do"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15915"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15915,
        ""poem.id"": 15915,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I Shouldn'T Be Alive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15916"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15916,
        ""poem.id"": 15916,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little Snow Was Here And There"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A little Snow was here and thereDisseminated in her Hair - Since she and I had met and playedDecade had gathered to Decade - But Time had added not obtainedImpregnable the RoseFor summer too indelibleToo obdurate for Snows -"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15917"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15917,
        ""poem.id"": 15917,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15918"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15918,
        ""poem.id"": 15918,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Am Alive - I Guess"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15919"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15919,
        ""poem.id"": 15919,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Would Not Paint—a Picture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15920"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15920,
        ""poem.id"": 15920,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Uncertain Lease—develops Lustre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15921"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15921,
        ""poem.id"": 15921,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heaven Is So Far Of The Mind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15922"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15922,
        ""poem.id"": 15922,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Leaves Like Women Interchange"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15923"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15923,
        ""poem.id"": 15923,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Shall Know Why—when Time Is Over"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15924"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15924,
        ""poem.id"": 15924,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15925"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15925,
        ""poem.id"": 15925,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 02:59:57"",
        ""poem.title"": """",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15926"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15926,
        ""poem.id"": 15926,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Was A Poet&Mdash;It Is That"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15927"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15927,
        ""poem.id"": 15927,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Grief Is A Mouse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15928"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15928,
        ""poem.id"": 15928,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Rags Mysterious As These"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15929"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15929,
        ""poem.id"": 15929,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Have A Bird In Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15930"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15930,
        ""poem.id"": 15930,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her Breast Is Fit For Pearls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15931"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15931,
        ""poem.id"": 15931,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Cannot Put A Fire Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15932"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15932,
        ""poem.id"": 15932,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love&Mdash;Is Anterior To Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15935"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15935,
        ""poem.id"": 15935,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The First Day's Night Had Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15936"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15936,
        ""poem.id"": 15936,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Presentiment Is That Long Shadow On The Lawn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15937"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15937,
        ""poem.id"": 15937,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unit, Like Death, For Whom?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15938"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15938,
        ""poem.id"": 15938,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My River Runs To Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15940"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15940,
        ""poem.id"": 15940,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Our Journey Had Advanced;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15941"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15941,
        ""poem.id"": 15941,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sic Transit Gloria Mundi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15942"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15942,
        ""poem.id"": 15942,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:00:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15943"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15943,
        ""poem.id"": 15943,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Can But Follow To The Sun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15944"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15944,
        ""poem.id"": 15944,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If Your Nerve, Deny You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15945"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15945,
        ""poem.id"": 15945,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Fight Aloud, Is Very Brave"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15946"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15946,
        ""poem.id"": 15946,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pain Has An Element Of Blank;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15947"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15947,
        ""poem.id"": 15947,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Had No Time To Hate, Because"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15948"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15948,
        ""poem.id"": 15948,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two—were Immortal Twice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15949"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15949,
        ""poem.id"": 15949,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Moon Was But A Chin Of Gold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15950"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15950,
        ""poem.id"": 15950,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Too Little Way The House Must Lie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15951"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15951,
        ""poem.id"": 15951,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nature Rarer Uses Yellow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15952"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15952,
        ""poem.id"": 15952,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mystery Of Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15953"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15953,
        ""poem.id"": 15953,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M Ceded—i'Ve Stopped Being Theirs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15954"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15954,
        ""poem.id"": 15954,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15955"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15955,
        ""poem.id"": 15955,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:01:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rainbow Never Tells Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15956"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15956,
        ""poem.id"": 15956,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How The Waters Closed Above Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15957"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15957,
        ""poem.id"": 15957,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Felt My Life With Both My Hands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15958"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15958,
        ""poem.id"": 15958,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Shut Me Up In Prose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15959"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15959,
        ""poem.id"": 15959,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Reckon—when I Count It All"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15960"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15960,
        ""poem.id"": 15960,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Stepped From Plank To Plank"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15961"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15961,
        ""poem.id"": 15961,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Fill A Gap"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15962"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15962,
        ""poem.id"": 15962,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Lands I Never Saw—they Say"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15963"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15963,
        ""poem.id"": 15963,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon Concluded Lives"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15964"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15964,
        ""poem.id"": 15964,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Make One's Toilette&Mdash;After Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15965"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15965,
        ""poem.id"": 15965,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bible Is An Antique Volume"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15966"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15966,
        ""poem.id"": 15966,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Tried To Think A Lonelier Thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15967"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15967,
        ""poem.id"": 15967,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:02:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Under The Light, Yet Under"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15968"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15968,
        ""poem.id"": 15968,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Me From Myself—to Banish"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15969"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15969,
        ""poem.id"": 15969,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This World Is Not Conclusion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15970"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15970,
        ""poem.id"": 15970,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Are The Days When Birds Come Back"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15971"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15971,
        ""poem.id"": 15971,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Life—is What We Make Of It"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15972"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15972,
        ""poem.id"": 15972,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Quiet Dust Was Gentlemen And Ladies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15973"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15973,
        ""poem.id"": 15973,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unfulfilled To Observation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15974"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15974,
        ""poem.id"": 15974,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Offer Brave Assistance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15975"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15975,
        ""poem.id"": 15975,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M The Little"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15976"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15976,
        ""poem.id"": 15976,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Impossibility, Like Wine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15977"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15977,
        ""poem.id"": 15977,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Twice Had Summer Her Fair Verdure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15978"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15978,
        ""poem.id"": 15978,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:03:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Going To Him! Happy Letter! Tell Him--"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15979"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15979,
        ""poem.id"": 15979,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Pain—so Utter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15980"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15980,
        ""poem.id"": 15980,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Twas Crisis—all The Length Had Passed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15981"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15981,
        ""poem.id"": 15981,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Why Do They Shut Me Out of Heaven?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15982"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15982,
        ""poem.id"": 15982,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That Is Solemn We Have Ended"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15983"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15983,
        ""poem.id"": 15983,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Heart Asks Pleasure First"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15984"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15984,
        ""poem.id"": 15984,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""God Gave A Loaf To Every Bird,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15985"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15985,
        ""poem.id"": 15985,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I Should Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15986"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15986,
        ""poem.id"": 15986,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unto Me? I Do Not Know You—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15987"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15987,
        ""poem.id"": 15987,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Fumbles At Your Spirit"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15988"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15988,
        ""poem.id"": 15988,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Undue Significance A Starving Man Attaches"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15989"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15989,
        ""poem.id"": 15989,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Admirations—and Contempts—of Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15990"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15990,
        ""poem.id"": 15990,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Snow Beneath Whose Chilly Softness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15991"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15991,
        ""poem.id"": 15991,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With Thee, In The Desert"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15992"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15992,
        ""poem.id"": 15992,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's All I Have To Bring Today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15993"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15993,
        ""poem.id"": 15993,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:04:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Fumbles At Your Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15994"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15994,
        ""poem.id"": 15994,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love Reckons By Itself—alone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15995"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15995,
        ""poem.id"": 15995,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Learned The Whole Of Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15996"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15996,
        ""poem.id"": 15996,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I Could Bribe Them By A Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15997"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15997,
        ""poem.id"": 15997,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Glee—the Great Storm Is Over"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15998"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15998,
        ""poem.id"": 15998,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Going To Heaven!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""15999"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 15999,
        ""poem.id"": 15999,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Swimmers Wrestled On The Spar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16000"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16000,
        ""poem.id"": 16000,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""They Say That 'Time Assuages,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16001"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16001,
        ""poem.id"": 16001,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That First Day, When You Praised Me, Sweet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16002"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16002,
        ""poem.id"": 16002,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16003"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16003,
        ""poem.id"": 16003,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Home"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16004"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16004,
        ""poem.id"": 16004,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twas A Long Parting&Mdash;But The Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16005"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16005,
        ""poem.id"": 16005,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Dream—it Is Good We Are Dreaming"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16006"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16006,
        ""poem.id"": 16006,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:05:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Angle Of A Landscape"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16007"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16007,
        ""poem.id"": 16007,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wait Till The Majesty Of Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16008"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16008,
        ""poem.id"": 16008,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cricket Sang,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16009"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16009,
        ""poem.id"": 16009,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To This World She Returned"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16010"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16010,
        ""poem.id"": 16010,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unto My Books—so Good To Turn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16011"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16011,
        ""poem.id"": 16011,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sky Is Low, The Clouds Are Mean,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16012"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16012,
        ""poem.id"": 16012,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Dreaded That First Robin, So"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16013"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16013,
        ""poem.id"": 16013,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Should Not Dare To Leave My Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16014"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16014,
        ""poem.id"": 16014,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To My Quick Ear The Leaves Conferred;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16015"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16015,
        ""poem.id"": 16015,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Life Had Stood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16016"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16016,
        ""poem.id"": 16016,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Know That Portrait In The Moon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16017"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16017,
        ""poem.id"": 16017,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Friend Must Be A Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16018"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16018,
        ""poem.id"": 16018,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Within My Garden, Rides A Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16019"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16019,
        ""poem.id"": 16019,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:06:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Put This World Down, Like A Bundle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16020"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16020,
        ""poem.id"": 16020,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Venerate The Simple Days"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16021"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16021,
        ""poem.id"": 16021,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Travellers Perishing In Snow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16022"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16022,
        ""poem.id"": 16022,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""South Winds Jostle Them"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16023"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16023,
        ""poem.id"": 16023,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Knew No Lapse, Nor Diminuation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16024"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16024,
        ""poem.id"": 16024,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Held A Jewel In My Fingers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16025"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16025,
        ""poem.id"": 16025,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Many Flowers Fail In Wood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16026"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16026,
        ""poem.id"": 16026,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Rose To His Requirement"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16027"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16027,
        ""poem.id"": 16027,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Is My Letter To The World,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16028"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16028,
        ""poem.id"": 16028,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To One Denied The Drink"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16029"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16029,
        ""poem.id"": 16029,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Fortunate The Grave"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16030"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16030,
        ""poem.id"": 16030,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inconceivably Solemn!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16031"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16031,
        ""poem.id"": 16031,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:07:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Lose One's Faith&Mdash;Surpass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16032"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16032,
        ""poem.id"": 16032,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Hide Myself Within My Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16033"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16033,
        ""poem.id"": 16033,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Victory Comes Late"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16034"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16034,
        ""poem.id"": 16034,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Lose Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/21/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16035"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16035,
        ""poem.id"": 16035,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twould Ease—a Butterfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16036"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16036,
        ""poem.id"": 16036,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Sister Have I In Our House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16037"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16037,
        ""poem.id"": 16037,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Own The Art Within The Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16038"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16038,
        ""poem.id"": 16038,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twas The Old—road—through Pain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16039"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16039,
        ""poem.id"": 16039,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Good Morning—midnight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16040"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16040,
        ""poem.id"": 16040,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Take Your Heaven Further On"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16041"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16041,
        ""poem.id"": 16041,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Reason, Earth Is Short"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
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    ""16042"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16042,
        ""poem.id"": 16042,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Triumph—may Be Of Several Kinds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16046"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16046,
        ""poem.id"": 16046,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Is It Dead—find It"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16047"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16047,
        ""poem.id"": 16047,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16049"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16049,
        ""poem.id"": 16049,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:08:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Talk With Prudence To A Beggar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16050"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16050,
        ""poem.id"": 16050,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That Distance Was Between Us"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16051"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16051,
        ""poem.id"": 16051,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Escaping Backward To Perceive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16052"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16052,
        ""poem.id"": 16052,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Brain&Mdash;Is Wider Than The Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16053"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16053,
        ""poem.id"": 16053,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was Too Late For Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16054"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16054,
        ""poem.id"": 16054,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Taking Up The Fair Ideal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16055"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16055,
        ""poem.id"": 16055,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Battle Fought Between The Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16056"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16056,
        ""poem.id"": 16056,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To My Small Hearth His Fire Came"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16057"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16057,
        ""poem.id"": 16057,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Embarrassment Of One Another"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16058"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16058,
        ""poem.id"": 16058,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Said That I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16059"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16059,
        ""poem.id"": 16059,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Love Thee Year By Year"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16060"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16060,
        ""poem.id"": 16060,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Troubled Me As Once I Was"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16061"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16061,
        ""poem.id"": 16061,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sown In Dishonor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16062"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16062,
        ""poem.id"": 16062,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16063"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16063,
        ""poem.id"": 16063,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:09:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16064"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16064,
        ""poem.id"": 16064,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Give Little Anguish"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16066"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16066,
        ""poem.id"": 16066,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twas Just This Time, Last Year, I Died"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16067"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16067,
        ""poem.id"": 16067,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Is It True, Dear Sue?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16068"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16068,
        ""poem.id"": 16068,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Took My Power In My Hand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16069"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16069,
        ""poem.id"": 16069,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Teach Him—when He Makes The Names"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16070"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16070,
        ""poem.id"": 16070,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Winter In My Room"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16071"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16071,
        ""poem.id"": 16071,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Twas Such A Little—little Boat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16072"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16072,
        ""poem.id"": 16072,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dropped Into The Ether Acre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16073"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16073,
        ""poem.id"": 16073,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16074"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16074,
        ""poem.id"": 16074,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Trust In The Unexpected"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16075"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16075,
        ""poem.id"": 16075,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Constituted Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16076"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16076,
        ""poem.id"": 16076,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That After Horror—that 'Twas Us"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16077"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16077,
        ""poem.id"": 16077,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:10:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Us She Wandered Now A Year"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16078"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16078,
        ""poem.id"": 16078,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little Dog That Wags His Tail"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/6/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16080"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16080,
        ""poem.id"": 16080,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Dropped So Low In My Regard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16081"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16081,
        ""poem.id"": 16081,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Such Is The Force Of Happiness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16082"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16082,
        ""poem.id"": 16082,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twas Love—not Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16084"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16084,
        ""poem.id"": 16084,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soto! Explore Thyself!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16085"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16085,
        ""poem.id"": 16085,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some, Too Fragile For Winter Winds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16088"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16088,
        ""poem.id"": 16088,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Love The Lord—you Cannot See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16089"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16089,
        ""poem.id"": 16089,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twas Like A Maelstrom, With A Notch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16090"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16090,
        ""poem.id"": 16090,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16092"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16092,
        ""poem.id"": 16092,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Exhilaration—is Within"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16093"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16093,
        ""poem.id"": 16093,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Knew No Medicine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16094"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16094,
        ""poem.id"": 16094,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:11:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Largest Woman's Hearth I Knew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16095"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16095,
        ""poem.id"": 16095,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Year Ago—jots What?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16096"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16096,
        ""poem.id"": 16096,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Play At Paste,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16097"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16097,
        ""poem.id"": 16097,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Is A Lonesome Glee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16098"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16098,
        ""poem.id"": 16098,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16101"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16101,
        ""poem.id"": 16101,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Many Times Thought Peace Had Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16102"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16102,
        ""poem.id"": 16102,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Love Me—you Are Sure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16103"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16103,
        ""poem.id"": 16103,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:12:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fame Of Myself, To Justify"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16104"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16104,
        ""poem.id"": 16104,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:25:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Don'T Sound So Terrible—quite—as It Did"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""16105"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16105,
        ""poem.id"": 16105,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Drab Habitation Of Whom?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16106"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16106,
        ""poem.id"": 16106,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Forget! The Lady With The Amulet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16107"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16107,
        ""poem.id"": 16107,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was A Grave, Yet Bore No Stone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16108"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16108,
        ""poem.id"": 16108,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Garland For Queens, May Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16109"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16109,
        ""poem.id"": 16109,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By Such And Such An Offering"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16110"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16110,
        ""poem.id"": 16110,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Conjecturing A Climate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16111"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16111,
        ""poem.id"": 16111,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Frequently The Wood Are Pink"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16112"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16112,
        ""poem.id"": 16112,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Finite—to Fail, But Infinite To Venture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16113"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16113,
        ""poem.id"": 16113,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:13:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Bloomed And Dropt, A Single Noon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16114"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16114,
        ""poem.id"": 16114,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By Chivalries As Tiny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16115"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16115,
        ""poem.id"": 16115,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Twas Warm—at First—like Us"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16116"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16116,
        ""poem.id"": 16116,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Far Is It To Heaven?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16117"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16117,
        ""poem.id"": 16117,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16119"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16119,
        ""poem.id"": 16119,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Is Easy To Work When The Soul Is At Play"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16120"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16120,
        ""poem.id"": 16120,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dying! To Be Afraid Of Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16121"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16121,
        ""poem.id"": 16121,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Tossed—and Tossed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16122"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16122,
        ""poem.id"": 16122,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Conscious Am I In My Chamber"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16124"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16124,
        ""poem.id"": 16124,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Have You Got A Brook In Your Little Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16125"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16125,
        ""poem.id"": 16125,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Struck Me Every Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16131"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16131,
        ""poem.id"": 16131,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16132"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16132,
        ""poem.id"": 16132,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spring Is The Period"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16133"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16133,
        ""poem.id"": 16133,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:14:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Deprived Of Other Banquet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16134"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16134,
        ""poem.id"": 16134,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Expectation—is Contentment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16135"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16135,
        ""poem.id"": 16135,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You See I Cannot See—your Lifetime"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16136"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16136,
        ""poem.id"": 16136,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Butterflies Went Out At Noon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16137"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16137,
        ""poem.id"": 16137,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Except The Heaven Had Come So Near"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16138"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16138,
        ""poem.id"": 16138,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fairer Through Fading—as The Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16139"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16139,
        ""poem.id"": 16139,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Makes No Difference Abroad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16140"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16140,
        ""poem.id"": 16140,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16141"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16141,
        ""poem.id"": 16141,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Experience Is The Angled Road"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16142"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16142,
        ""poem.id"": 16142,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Snow Flakes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16143"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16143,
        ""poem.id"": 16143,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Distrustful Of The Gentian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16144"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16144,
        ""poem.id"": 16144,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16145"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16145,
        ""poem.id"": 16145,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Artists Wrestled Here!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16146"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16146,
        ""poem.id"": 16146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For This—accepted Breath"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16147"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16147,
        ""poem.id"": 16147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:15:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dust Is The Only Secret"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16148"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16148,
        ""poem.id"": 16148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Railway Train"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16149"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16149,
        ""poem.id"": 16149,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nobody Knows This Little Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16150"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16150,
        ""poem.id"": 16150,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Could I—then—shut The Door"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16151"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16151,
        ""poem.id"": 16151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Could—i Do More—for Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16152"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16152,
        ""poem.id"": 16152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Truth—is As Old As God"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16153"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16153,
        ""poem.id"": 16153,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Brain Within It's Groove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16154"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16154,
        ""poem.id"": 16154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bustle In A House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16155"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16155,
        ""poem.id"": 16155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Did You Ever Stand In A Cavern's Mouth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16156"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16156,
        ""poem.id"": 16156,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Children Bid The Guest \"Good Night\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16157"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16157,
        ""poem.id"": 16157,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Forever At His Side To Walk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16158"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16158,
        ""poem.id"": 16158,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By My Window Have I For Scenery"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16159"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16159,
        ""poem.id"": 16159,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Forever—it Composed Of Nows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16160"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16160,
        ""poem.id"": 16160,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:16:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Great Hope Fell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16161"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16161,
        ""poem.id"": 16161,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Did The Harebell Loose Her Girdle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16162"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16162,
        ""poem.id"": 16162,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Like To See It Lap The Miles,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16163"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16163,
        ""poem.id"": 16163,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Between My Country—and The Others"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16165"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16165,
        ""poem.id"": 16165,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Is An Honorable Thought,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16166"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16166,
        ""poem.id"": 16166,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Best Things Dwell Out Of Sight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16167"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16167,
        ""poem.id"": 16167,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Color—caste—denomination"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16168"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16168,
        ""poem.id"": 16168,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Each Scar I'Ll Keep For Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16169"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16169,
        ""poem.id"": 16169,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Drama's Vitallest Expression Is The Common Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16171"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16171,
        ""poem.id"": 16171,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Frost Is Best Conceived"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16172"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16172,
        ""poem.id"": 16172,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Banish Air From Air&Mdash;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16174"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16174,
        ""poem.id"": 16174,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Superfluous Were The Sun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16175"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16175,
        ""poem.id"": 16175,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16176"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16176,
        ""poem.id"": 16176,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elysium Is As Far As To"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16177"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16177,
        ""poem.id"": 16177,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:17:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Could I But Ride Indefinite"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16178"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16178,
        ""poem.id"": 16178,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heart, We Will Forget Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16179"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16179,
        ""poem.id"": 16179,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Can'T Be \"Summer\"!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16180"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16180,
        ""poem.id"": 16180,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fitter To See Him, I May Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16181"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16181,
        ""poem.id"": 16181,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Train"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16182"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16182,
        ""poem.id"": 16182,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Watchers Hang Upon The East"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16183"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16183,
        ""poem.id"": 16183,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All Circumstances Are The Frame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16184"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16184,
        ""poem.id"": 16184,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Wait An Hour—is Long"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16185"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16185,
        ""poem.id"": 16185,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Delayed Till She Had Ceased To Know"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16187"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16187,
        ""poem.id"": 16187,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You'Ll Know Her—by Her Foot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16188"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16188,
        ""poem.id"": 16188,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If You Were Coming In The Fall,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16190"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16190,
        ""poem.id"": 16190,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endow The Living—with The Tears"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16191"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16191,
        ""poem.id"": 16191,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:18:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As If I Asked A Common Alms"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16192"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16192,
        ""poem.id"": 16192,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You'Ll Find—it When You Try To Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16194"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16194,
        ""poem.id"": 16194,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Besides This May"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16195"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16195,
        ""poem.id"": 16195,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Why Do I Love You, Sir?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16197"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16197,
        ""poem.id"": 16197,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Delight Becomes Pictorial"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16199"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16199,
        ""poem.id"": 16199,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Houses—so The Wise Men Tell Me—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16200"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16200,
        ""poem.id"": 16200,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Empty My Heart, Of Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16202"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16202,
        ""poem.id"": 16202,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bloom Upon The Mountain—stated"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16204"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16204,
        ""poem.id"": 16204,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As The Starved Maelstrom Laps The Navies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16205"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16205,
        ""poem.id"": 16205,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Be Mine The Doom&Mdash;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16207"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16207,
        ""poem.id"": 16207,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Delight Is As The Flight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16208"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16208,
        ""poem.id"": 16208,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Each Life Converges To Some Centre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16209"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16209,
        ""poem.id"": 16209,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Tongue—to Tell Him I Am True!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16210"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16210,
        ""poem.id"": 16210,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:19:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Always Felt To Me—a Wrong"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16211"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16211,
        ""poem.id"": 16211,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Every Bird A Nest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16212"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16212,
        ""poem.id"": 16212,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Did We Disobey Him?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16213"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16213,
        ""poem.id"": 16213,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Started Early - Took My Dog"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16214"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16214,
        ""poem.id"": 16214,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dare You See A Soul At The White Heat?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16215"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16215,
        ""poem.id"": 16215,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Defrauded I A Butterfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16217"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16217,
        ""poem.id"": 16217,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Plan For Noon And Plan For Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16218"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16218,
        ""poem.id"": 16218,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Blazing In Gold And Quenching In Purple"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16219"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16219,
        ""poem.id"": 16219,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Except To Heaven, She Is Nought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16220"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16220,
        ""poem.id"": 16220,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Better—than Music! For I—who Heard It"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16221"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16221,
        ""poem.id"": 16221,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By A Flower—by A Letter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16222"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16222,
        ""poem.id"": 16222,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was Given To Me By The Gods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16223"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16223,
        ""poem.id"": 16223,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:20:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis So Much Joy!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16224"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16224,
        ""poem.id"": 16224,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:21:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Best Gains—must Have The Losses' Test"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16225"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16225,
        ""poem.id"": 16225,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:21:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Away From Home Are Some And I—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16226"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16226,
        ""poem.id"": 16226,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:21:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Denial&Mdash;Is The Only Fact"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16227"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16227,
        ""poem.id"": 16227,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:21:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Blank To Blank"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16228"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16228,
        ""poem.id"": 16228,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:21:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Sleigh Bells Seem In Summer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16229"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16229,
        ""poem.id"": 16229,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:21:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""At Least—to Pray—is Left—is Left"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16230"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16230,
        ""poem.id"": 16230,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As One Does Sickness Over"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16231"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16231,
        ""poem.id"": 16231,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Further In Summer Than The Birds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16232"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16232,
        ""poem.id"": 16232,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Surgeons Must Be Very Careful"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16233"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16233,
        ""poem.id"": 16233,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""And This Of All My Hopes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16234"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16234,
        ""poem.id"": 16234,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Weight With Needles On The Pounds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16235"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16235,
        ""poem.id"": 16235,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Before The Ice Is In The Pools"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16236"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16236,
        ""poem.id"": 16236,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ambition Cannot Find Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16237"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16237,
        ""poem.id"": 16237,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Death—or Rather"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16238"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16238,
        ""poem.id"": 16238,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death Is Potential To That Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16239"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16239,
        ""poem.id"": 16239,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Doom Is The House Without The Door"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16240"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16240,
        ""poem.id"": 16240,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:22:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Could Live—did Live"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16241"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16241,
        ""poem.id"": 16241,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Visitor In Marl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16242"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16242,
        ""poem.id"": 16242,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Baffled For Just A Day Or Two"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16243"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16243,
        ""poem.id"": 16243,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Because The Bee May Blameless Hum"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16244"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16244,
        ""poem.id"": 16244,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Died For Beauty But Was Scarce"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16245"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16245,
        ""poem.id"": 16245,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crisis Is A Hair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16246"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16246,
        ""poem.id"": 16246,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Finding Is The First Act"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16247"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16247,
        ""poem.id"": 16247,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Civilization&Mdash;Spurns&Mdash;The Leopard!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16248"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16248,
        ""poem.id"": 16248,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Exultation Is The Going"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16249"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16249,
        ""poem.id"": 16249,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dreams&Mdash;Are Well&Mdash;But Waking's Better"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16250"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16250,
        ""poem.id"": 16250,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Far From Pity, As Complaint"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16251"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16251,
        ""poem.id"": 16251,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Transport One Cannot Contain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16252"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16252,
        ""poem.id"": 16252,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Despair's Advantage Is Achieved"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16253"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16253,
        ""poem.id"": 16253,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Answer July"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16254"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16254,
        ""poem.id"": 16254,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:23:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Do People Moulder Equally"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16255"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16255,
        ""poem.id"": 16255,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Your Riches—taught Me—poverty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16256"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16256,
        ""poem.id"": 16256,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unable Are The Loved To Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16257"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16257,
        ""poem.id"": 16257,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Feels A Shame To Be Alive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16258"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16258,
        ""poem.id"": 16258,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Tooth Upon Our Peace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16259"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16259,
        ""poem.id"": 16259,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That I Did Always Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16260"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16260,
        ""poem.id"": 16260,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bless God, He Went As Soldiers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16261"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16261,
        ""poem.id"": 16261,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Don'T Put Up My Thread And Needle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16262"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16262,
        ""poem.id"": 16262,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Water, Is Taught By Thirst"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16263"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16263,
        ""poem.id"": 16263,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Happy I Was If I Could Forget"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16264"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16264,
        ""poem.id"": 16264,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Awake Ye Muses Nine, Sing Me A Strain Divine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16265"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16265,
        ""poem.id"": 16265,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Throe Upon The Features"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16266"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16266,
        ""poem.id"": 16266,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:24:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Although I Put Away His Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16267"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16267,
        ""poem.id"": 16267,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Did Our Best Moment Last"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16268"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16268,
        ""poem.id"": 16268,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Sifts From Leaden Sieves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16269"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16269,
        ""poem.id"": 16269,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death Sets A Thing Of Signigicant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16270"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16270,
        ""poem.id"": 16270,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Ignorance A Sunset"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16271"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16271,
        ""poem.id"": 16271,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All These My Banners Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16272"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16272,
        ""poem.id"": 16272,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Funny—to Be A Century"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16273"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16273,
        ""poem.id"": 16273,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Four Trees—upon A Solitary Acre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16274"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16274,
        ""poem.id"": 16274,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Besides The Autumn Poets Sing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16275"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16275,
        ""poem.id"": 16275,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A South Wind&Mdash;Has A Pathos"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16276"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16276,
        ""poem.id"": 16276,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Measure Every Grief I Meet (561)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16277"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16277,
        ""poem.id"": 16277,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Dropped So Low -- In My Regard --"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16278"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16278,
        ""poem.id"": 16278,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is No Frigate Like A Book"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16279"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16279,
        ""poem.id"": 16279,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:25:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You'Ll Know It—as You Know 'Tis Noon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16280"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16280,
        ""poem.id"": 16280,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As By The Dead We Love To Sit"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16281"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16281,
        ""poem.id"": 16281,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""First Robin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16282"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16282,
        ""poem.id"": 16282,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bereavement In Their Death To Feel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16283"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16283,
        ""poem.id"": 16283,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Departed To The Judgment,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16284"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16284,
        ""poem.id"": 16284,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Everywhere Of Silver"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16285"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16285,
        ""poem.id"": 16285,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beclouded"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16286"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16286,
        ""poem.id"": 16286,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All Forgot For Recollecting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16287"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16287,
        ""poem.id"": 16287,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Before I Got My Eye Put Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16288"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16288,
        ""poem.id"": 16288,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16289"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16289,
        ""poem.id"": 16289,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sunset At Night—is Natural"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16290"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16290,
        ""poem.id"": 16290,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Single Screw Of Flesh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16291"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16291,
        ""poem.id"": 16291,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Cocoon Forth A Butterfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16292"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16292,
        ""poem.id"": 16292,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Might Be Lonelier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16293"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16293,
        ""poem.id"": 16293,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:26:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There's A Certain Slant Of Light (258)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16294"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16294,
        ""poem.id"": 16294,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crumbling Is Not An Instant's Act"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16295"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16295,
        ""poem.id"": 16295,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Autumn&Mdash;Overlooked My Knitting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16296"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16296,
        ""poem.id"": 16296,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As If Some Little Arctic Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16297"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16297,
        ""poem.id"": 16297,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""T Was Just This Time Last Year I Died."",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16298"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16298,
        ""poem.id"": 16298,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Hour Is A Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16299"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16299,
        ""poem.id"": 16299,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alter! When The Hills Do"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16300"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16300,
        ""poem.id"": 16300,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Awful Tempest Mashed The Air"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16301"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16301,
        ""poem.id"": 16301,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beauty&Mdash;Be Not Caused&Mdash;It Is"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16302"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16302,
        ""poem.id"": 16302,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Everywhere Of Silver"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16303"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16303,
        ""poem.id"": 16303,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Planted Life&Mdash;Diversified"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16304"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16304,
        ""poem.id"": 16304,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I’ll Tell You How The Sun Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16305"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16305,
        ""poem.id"": 16305,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All I May, If Small"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16306"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16306,
        ""poem.id"": 16306,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:27:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Happy Is The Little Stone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16307"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16307,
        ""poem.id"": 16307,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Faith"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16308"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16308,
        ""poem.id"": 16308,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Apology For Her"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16309"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16309,
        ""poem.id"": 16309,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Come Slowly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16310"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16310,
        ""poem.id"": 16310,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Taught Me Waiting With Myself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16311"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16311,
        ""poem.id"": 16311,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All Overgrown By Cunning Moss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16312"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16312,
        ""poem.id"": 16312,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Solemn Thing&Mdash;It Was&Mdash;I Said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16313"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16313,
        ""poem.id"": 16313,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bustle In A House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16314"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16314,
        ""poem.id"": 16314,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ah, Teneriffe!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16315"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16315,
        ""poem.id"": 16315,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Before You Thought Of Spring,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16316"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16316,
        ""poem.id"": 16316,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Absent Place&Mdash;An April Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16317"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16317,
        ""poem.id"": 16317,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Brain—is Wider Than The Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16318"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16318,
        ""poem.id"": 16318,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Angels, In The Early Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16319"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16319,
        ""poem.id"": 16319,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:28:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Science&Mdash;So The Savants Say"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16320"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16320,
        ""poem.id"": 16320,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Wounded Deer&Mdash;Leaps Highest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16321"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16321,
        ""poem.id"": 16321,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Make A Prairie (1755)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16322"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16322,
        ""poem.id"": 16322,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Toad Can Die Of Light!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16323"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16323,
        ""poem.id"": 16323,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Altered Look About The Hills"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16324"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16324,
        ""poem.id"": 16324,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Nearness To Tremendousness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16325"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16325,
        ""poem.id"": 16325,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Mien To Move A Queen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16326"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16326,
        ""poem.id"": 16326,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Much Madness Is Divinest Sense"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16327"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16327,
        ""poem.id"": 16327,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Each Ecstatic Instant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16328"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16328,
        ""poem.id"": 16328,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You left me—Sire—two Legacies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16329"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16329,
        ""poem.id"": 16329,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16330"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16330,
        ""poem.id"": 16330,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All But Death, Can Be Adjusted"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16331"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16331,
        ""poem.id"": 16331,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:29:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Absence Disembodies—so Does Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16332"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16332,
        ""poem.id"": 16332,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fame Is A Bee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16333"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16333,
        ""poem.id"": 16333,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Thought Went Up My Mind To-Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16334"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16334,
        ""poem.id"": 16334,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Felt A Funeral, In My Brain (280)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16335"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16335,
        ""poem.id"": 16335,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As If The Sea Should Part"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16336"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16336,
        ""poem.id"": 16336,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death Is A Dialogue Between"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16337"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16337,
        ""poem.id"": 16337,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Grow Accustomed To The Dark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16338"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16338,
        ""poem.id"": 16338,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Faith—is The Pierless Bridge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16339"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16339,
        ""poem.id"": 16339,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Like A Look Of Agony"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16340"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16340,
        ""poem.id"": 16340,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You'Re Right—"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16341"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16341,
        ""poem.id"": 16341,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An English Breeze"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16342"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16342,
        ""poem.id"": 16342,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Night&Mdash;There Lay The Days Between"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16343"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16343,
        ""poem.id"": 16343,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:30:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Adrift! A Little Boat Adrift!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16344"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16344,
        ""poem.id"": 16344,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Precious—mouldering Pleasure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16345"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16345,
        ""poem.id"": 16345,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Wife&Mdash;At Daybreak I Shall Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16346"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16346,
        ""poem.id"": 16346,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man May Make A Remark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16347"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16347,
        ""poem.id"": 16347,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Always Mine!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16348"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16348,
        ""poem.id"": 16348,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By The Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16349"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16349,
        ""poem.id"": 16349,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Behind Me Dips Eternity"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16350"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16350,
        ""poem.id"": 16350,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Again&Mdash;His Voice Is At The Door"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16351"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16351,
        ""poem.id"": 16351,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Still—volcano—life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16352"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16352,
        ""poem.id"": 16352,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Solemn Thing Within The Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16353"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16353,
        ""poem.id"": 16353,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Will There Really Be A \"Morning\"?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16354"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16354,
        ""poem.id"": 16354,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:31:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Dwell In Possibility"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16355"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16355,
        ""poem.id"": 16355,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dying! Dying In The Night!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16356"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16356,
        ""poem.id"": 16356,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Abraham To Kill Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16357"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16357,
        ""poem.id"": 16357,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Shade Upon The Mind There Passes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16358"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16358,
        ""poem.id"": 16358,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Life Closed Twice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16359"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16359,
        ""poem.id"": 16359,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All The Letters I Can Write"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16360"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16360,
        ""poem.id"": 16360,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bring Me The Sunset In A Cup"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16361"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16361,
        ""poem.id"": 16361,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A First Mute Coming"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16362"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16362,
        ""poem.id"": 16362,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Murmur In The Trees&Mdash;To Note"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16363"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16363,
        ""poem.id"": 16363,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Chartless"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16364"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16364,
        ""poem.id"": 16364,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Soul Selects Her Own Society"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16365"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16365,
        ""poem.id"": 16365,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Something In A Summer's Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16366"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16366,
        ""poem.id"": 16366,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Summer Shower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16367"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16367,
        ""poem.id"": 16367,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:32:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Route Of Evanescence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16368"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16368,
        ""poem.id"": 16368,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Sepal, Petal, And A Thorn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16369"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16369,
        ""poem.id"": 16369,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little East Of Jordan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16370"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16370,
        ""poem.id"": 16370,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prison Gets To Be A Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16371"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16371,
        ""poem.id"": 16371,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Feather From The Whippoorwill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16372"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16372,
        ""poem.id"": 16372,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Poor&Mdash;Torn Heart&Mdash;A Tattered Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16373"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16373,
        ""poem.id"": 16373,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Imperceptibly As Grief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16374"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16374,
        ""poem.id"": 16374,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Lady Red&Mdash;Amid The Hill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16375"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16375,
        ""poem.id"": 16375,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16376"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16376,
        ""poem.id"": 16376,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wild Nights! Wild Nights!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16377"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16377,
        ""poem.id"": 16377,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Afraid! Of Whom Am I Afraid?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16378"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16378,
        ""poem.id"": 16378,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alone, I Cannot Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16379"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16379,
        ""poem.id"": 16379,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:33:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bee! I'M Expecting You!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16380"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16380,
        ""poem.id"": 16380,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Long, Long Sleep, A Famous Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16381"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16381,
        ""poem.id"": 16381,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fame Is A Fickle Food (1659)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16382"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16382,
        ""poem.id"": 16382,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Shady Friend For Torrid Days"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16383"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16383,
        ""poem.id"": 16383,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Moth The Hue Of This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16384"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16384,
        ""poem.id"": 16384,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""After A Hundred Years"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16385"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16385,
        ""poem.id"": 16385,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Happy Lip&Mdash;Breaks Sudden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16386"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16386,
        ""poem.id"": 16386,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little Road Not Made Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16387"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16387,
        ""poem.id"": 16387,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Apparently With No Surprise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16388"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16388,
        ""poem.id"": 16388,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Loss Of Something Ever Felt I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16389"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16389,
        ""poem.id"": 16389,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A House Upon The Height"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16390"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16390,
        ""poem.id"": 16390,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Never Saw A Moor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16391"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16391,
        ""poem.id"": 16391,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tell All The Truth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16392"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16392,
        ""poem.id"": 16392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:34:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little Bread&Mdash;A Crust&Mdash;A Crumb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16393"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16393,
        ""poem.id"": 16393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Fuzzy Fellow, Without Feet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16394"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16394,
        ""poem.id"": 16394,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is Another Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16395"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16395,
        ""poem.id"": 16395,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16396"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16396,
        ""poem.id"": 16396,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ah, Moon—and Star!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16397"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16397,
        ""poem.id"": 16397,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Doubt If It Be Us"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16398"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16398,
        ""poem.id"": 16398,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Darting Fear&Mdash;A Pomp&Mdash;A Tear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16399"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16399,
        ""poem.id"": 16399,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ample Make This Bed."",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16400"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16400,
        ""poem.id"": 16400,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Slash Of Blue"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16401"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16401,
        ""poem.id"": 16401,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Died For Beauty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16402"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16402,
        ""poem.id"": 16402,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16403"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16403,
        ""poem.id"": 16403,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death Leaves Us Homesick, Who Behind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16404"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16404,
        ""poem.id"": 16404,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Narrow Fellow In The Grass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16405"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16405,
        ""poem.id"": 16405,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:35:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Door Just Opened On A Street"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16406"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16406,
        ""poem.id"": 16406,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Success Is Counted Sweetest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16407"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16407,
        ""poem.id"": 16407,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Morning' Means 'Milking' To The Farmer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""300'Morning'—means 'Milking'—to the Farmer—Dawn—to the Teneriffe—Dice—to the Maid—Morning means just Risk—to the Lover—Just revelation—to the Beloved—Epicures—date a Breakfast—by it—Brides—an Apocalypse—Worlds—a Flood—Faint-going Lives—Their Lapse from Sighing—Faith—The Experiment of Our Lord"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16408"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16408,
        ""poem.id"": 16408,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Houses\"&Mdash;So The Wise Men Tell Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16409"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16409,
        ""poem.id"": 16409,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Drop Fell On The Apple Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16410"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16410,
        ""poem.id"": 16410,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'They Have Not Chosen Me,' He Said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16411"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16411,
        ""poem.id"": 16411,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Secret Told"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16412"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16412,
        ""poem.id"": 16412,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Death Blow Is A Life Blow To Some"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16413"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16413,
        ""poem.id"": 16413,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16414"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16414,
        ""poem.id"": 16414,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:36:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Burdock&Mdash;Clawed My Gown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16415"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16415,
        ""poem.id"": 16415,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"I Want\"&Mdash;It Pleaded&Mdash;All Its Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16416"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16416,
        ""poem.id"": 16416,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Speech'—is A Prank Of Parliament"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16417"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16417,
        ""poem.id"": 16417,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16418"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16418,
        ""poem.id"": 16418,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Light Exists In Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16419"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16419,
        ""poem.id"": 16419,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Charm Invests A Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16420"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16420,
        ""poem.id"": 16420,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Unto Me?\" I Do Not Know You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16421"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16421,
        ""poem.id"": 16421,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Arcturus' Is His Other Name"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16422"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16422,
        ""poem.id"": 16422,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Cloud Withdrew From The Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16423"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16423,
        ""poem.id"": 16423,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dying Tiger&Mdash;Moaned For Drink"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16424"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16424,
        ""poem.id"": 16424,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:37:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M Nobody! Who Are You?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16425"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16425,
        ""poem.id"": 16425,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Coffin—is A Small Domain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16426"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16426,
        ""poem.id"": 16426,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Because I Could Not Stop For Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16427"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16427,
        ""poem.id"": 16427,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Heaven\" Has Different Signs&Mdash;To Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16428"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16428,
        ""poem.id"": 16428,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Book"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16429"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16429,
        ""poem.id"": 16429,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Heaven\"—Is What I Cannot Reach!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16430"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16430,
        ""poem.id"": 16430,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Bird Came Down"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/14/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16431"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16431,
        ""poem.id"": 16431,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Faith\" Is A Fine Invention"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16432"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16432,
        ""poem.id"": 16432,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Nature\" Is What We See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16433"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16433,
        ""poem.id"": 16433,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Why Do I Love\" You, Sir?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    },
    ""16434"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16434,
        ""poem.id"": 16434,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hope Is The Thing With Feathers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Emily Dickinson""
    }
}"
7,"2018-02-28 20:26:43","Edgar Allan Poe","{
    ""241"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 241,
        ""poem.id"": 241,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ulalume"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crisped and sere -The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,In the misty mid region of Weir -It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.Here once, through an alley Titanic,Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanicAs the scoriac rivers that roll -As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole -That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn the realms of the boreal pole.Our talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -Our memories were treacherous and sere, -For we knew not the month was October,And we marked not the night of the year -(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber -(Though once we had journey down here),Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.And now, as the night was senescent,And star-dials pointed to morn -As the star-dials hinted of morn -At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn -Astarte's bediamonded crescentDistinct with its duplicate horn.And I said - \"She is warmer than Dian:She rolls through an ether of sighs -She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry onThese cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the LionTo point us the path to the skies -To the Lethean peace of the skies -Come up, in despite of the Lion,To shine on us with her bright eyes -Come up through the lair of the Lion,With love in her luminous eyes.\"But Psyche, uplifting her finger,Said - \"Sadly this star I mistrust -Her pallor I strangely mistrust: -Oh, hasten! - oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly! - let us fly! - for we must.\"In terror she spoke, letting sink herWings until they trailed in the dust -In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes till they trailed in the dust -Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.I replied - \"This is nothing but dreaming:Let us on by this tremulous light!Let us bathe in this crystalline light!Its Sybilic splendor is beamingWith Hope and in Beauty to-night! -See! - it flickers up the sky through the night!Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,And be sure it will lead us aright -We safely may trust to a gleaming,That cannot but guide us aright,Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.\"Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,And tempted her out of her gloom -And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the door of a tomb -By the door of a legended tomb;And I said - \"What is written, sweet sister,On the door of this legended tomb?\"She replied - \"Ulalume - Ulalume -‘Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!\"Then my heart it grew ashen and soberAs the leaves that were crisped and sere -As the leaves that were withering and sere,And I cried - \"It was surely OctoberOn this very night of last yearThat I journeyed - I journeyed down here -That I brought a dread burden down here!On this night of all nights in the year,Ah, what demon has tempted me here?Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber -This misty mid region of Weir -Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, -This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""242"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 242,
        ""poem.id"": 242,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Isadore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/19/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""243"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 243,
        ""poem.id"": 243,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The City Of Sin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""LO! Death hath rear'd himself a throneIn a strange city, all alone,Far down within the dim west —Where the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines, and palaces, and towersAre — not like any thing of ours —Oh no! — O no! — ours never loomTo heaven with that ungodly gloom!Time-eaten towers that tremble not!Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie. No holy rays from heaven come downOn the long night-time of that town,But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently —Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowersOf scultur'd ivy and stone flowers —Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —Up many a melancholy shrineWhose entablatures intertwineThe mask — the viol — and the vine. There open temples — open gravesAre on a level with the waves —But not the riches there that lieIn each idol's diamond eye,Not the gaily-jewell'd deadTempt the waters from their bed:For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass —No swellings hint that winds may beUpon a far-off happier sea:So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from the high towers of the townDeath looks gigantically down. But lo! a stir is in the air!The wave — there is a ripple there!As if the towers had thrown aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide —As if the turret-tops had givenA vacuum in the filmy heaven.The waves have now a redder glow —The very hours are breathing low —And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down, that town shall settle hence,All Hades, from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence,And Death to some more happy climeShall give his undivided time."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""244"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 244,
        ""poem.id"": 244,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:00:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Marie Louise (Shew)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/26/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""245"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 245,
        ""poem.id"": 245,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Village Street"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/19/2012"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""246"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 246,
        ""poem.id"": 246,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Impromptu - To Kate Carol"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""247"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 247,
        ""poem.id"": 247,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bells - A Collaboration"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/26/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""248"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 248,
        ""poem.id"": 248,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Divine Right Of Kings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/26/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""249"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 249,
        ""poem.id"": 249,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To M--"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""250"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 250,
        ""poem.id"": 250,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To -- --"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""251"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 251,
        ""poem.id"": 251,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stanzas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""252"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 252,
        ""poem.id"": 252,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To --"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""253"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 253,
        ""poem.id"": 253,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To M.L.S."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""254"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 254,
        ""poem.id"": 254,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To F--S S. O--D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""255"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 255,
        ""poem.id"": 255,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To F--"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""256"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 256,
        ""poem.id"": 256,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet- To Zante"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""257"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 257,
        ""poem.id"": 257,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hymn To Aristogeiton And Harmodius"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""258"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 258,
        ""poem.id"": 258,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:01:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Israfel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""259"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 259,
        ""poem.id"": 259,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sancta Maria"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""260"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 260,
        ""poem.id"": 260,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Youth I Have Known One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""261"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 261,
        ""poem.id"": 261,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Forest Reverie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""262"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 262,
        ""poem.id"": 262,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Helen - 1848"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""263"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 263,
        ""poem.id"": 263,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet- To Science"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""264"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 264,
        ""poem.id"": 264,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""265"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 265,
        ""poem.id"": 265,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To One Departed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""266"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 266,
        ""poem.id"": 266,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tamerlane"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""267"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 267,
        ""poem.id"": 267,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram For Wall Street"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""268"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 268,
        ""poem.id"": 268,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""269"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 269,
        ""poem.id"": 269,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To One In Paradise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""270"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 270,
        ""poem.id"": 270,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In The Greenest Of Our Valleys"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""271"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 271,
        ""poem.id"": 271,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:02:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Enigma"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""272"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 272,
        ""poem.id"": 272,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The River --"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""273"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 273,
        ""poem.id"": 273,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hymn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""274"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 274,
        ""poem.id"": 274,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Serenade"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""275"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 275,
        ""poem.id"": 275,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Valley Of Unrest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""276"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 276,
        ""poem.id"": 276,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Acrostic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""277"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 277,
        ""poem.id"": 277,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet- Silence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""278"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 278,
        ""poem.id"": 278,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lake"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""279"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 279,
        ""poem.id"": 279,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Coliseum"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length- at length- after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength- O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades- These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts- These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze- These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin- These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all- All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? 'Not all'- the Echoes answer me- 'not all! Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent- we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone- not all our fame- Not all the magic of our high renown- Not all the wonder that encircles us- Not all the mysteries that in us lie- Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""280"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 280,
        ""poem.id"": 280,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sleeper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin molders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies Irene, with her Destinies! O, lady bright! can it be right- This window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop- The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully- so fearfully- Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress, Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness! The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold- Some vault that oft has flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals- Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone- Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16475"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16475,
        ""poem.id"": 16475,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Haunted Palace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16476"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16476,
        ""poem.id"": 16476,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Annie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Thank Heaven! the crisis- The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last- And the fever called \"Living\" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length- But no matter!-I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed That any beholder Might fancy me dead- Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:- ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness- the nausea- The pitiless pain- Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain- With the fever called \"Living\" That burned in my brain. And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated- the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst:- I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst:- Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground- From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed- And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses- Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies- A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies- With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie- Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast- Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm- To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead- And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead- That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead. But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie- It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie- With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16477"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16477,
        ""poem.id"": 16477,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Paean"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16478"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16478,
        ""poem.id"": 16478,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Happiest Day, The Happiest Hour"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16479"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16479,
        ""poem.id"": 16479,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Helen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16480"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16480,
        ""poem.id"": 16480,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:38:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To My Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16481"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16481,
        ""poem.id"": 16481,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Conqueror Worm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16482"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16482,
        ""poem.id"": 16482,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Romance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16483"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16483,
        ""poem.id"": 16483,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Imitation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16484"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16484,
        ""poem.id"": 16484,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fairy-Land"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16485"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16485,
        ""poem.id"": 16485,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lenore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16486"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16486,
        ""poem.id"": 16486,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Al Aaraaf"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""PART I O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy- O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill- Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell- Oh, nothing of the dross of ours- Yet all the beauty- all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers- Adorn yon world afar, afar- The wandering star. 'Twas a sweet time for Nesace- for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns- a temporary rest- An oasis in desert of the blest. Away- away- 'mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul- The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin'd eminence,- To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode And late to ours, the favor'd one of God- But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, She throws aside the sceptre- leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the 'Idea of Beauty' into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) She looked into Infinity- and knelt. Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled- Fit emblems of the model of her world- Seen but in beauty- not impeding sight Of other beauty glittering thro' the light- A wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the opal'd air in color bound. All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of- deep pride- Of her who lov'd a mortal- and so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Upreared its purple stem around her knees:- And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd- Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd All other loveliness:- its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond- and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant in grief Disconsolate linger- grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have Red, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: And Clytia, pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth, And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown' From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! Isola d'oro!- Fior di Levante! And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river- Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven: 'Spirit! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blue- The boundary of the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar- Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride and from their throne To be drudges till the last- To be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not part- Who livest- that we know- In Eternity- we feel- But the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream'd for thy Infinity A model of their own- Thy will is done, O God! The star hath ridden high Thro' many a tempest, but she rode Beneath thy burning eye; And here, in thought, to thee- In thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne- By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven.' She ceas'd- and buried then her burning cheek Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek A shelter from the fervor of His eye; For the stars trembled at the Deity. She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there How solemnly pervading the calm air! A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name 'the music of the sphere.' Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call 'Silence'- which is the merest word of all. All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings- But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And the red winds are withering in the sky:- 'What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run, Linked to a little system, and one sun- Where all my love is folly and the crowd Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud, The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath- (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?) What tho' in worlds which own a single sun The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run, Yet thine is my resplendency, so given To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven! Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, With all thy train, athwart the moony sky- Apart- like fire-flies in Sicilian night, And wing to other worlds another light! Divulge the secrets of thy embassy To the proud orbs that twinkle- and so be To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!' Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, The single-mooned eve!- on Earth we plight Our faith to one love- and one moon adore- The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. As sprang that yellow star from downy hours Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign. PART II High on a mountain of enamell'd head- Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees With many a mutter'd 'hope to be forgiven' What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven- Of rosy head that, towering far away Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eve- at noon of night, While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light- Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they die- Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown- A window of one circular diamond, there, Look'd out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow'd all the beauty twice again, Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit Flapp'd his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave- And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peered out, Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche- Achaian statues in a world so rich! Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis- From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave Is now upon thee- but too late to save! Sound loves to revel in a summer night: Witness the murmur of the grey twilight That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild star-gazer long ago- That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim, And sees the darkness coming as a cloud- Is not its form- its voice- most palpable and loud? But what is this?- it cometh, and it brings A music with it- 'tis the rush of wings- A pause- and then a sweeping, falling strain And Nesace is in her halls again. From the wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart; And zone that clung around her gentle waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. Within the centre of that hall to breathe, She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath, The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there. Young flowers were whispering in melody To happy flowers that night- and tree to tree; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell; Yet silence came upon material things- Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings- And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: ''Neath the blue-bell or streamer- Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam away- Bright beings! that ponder, With half closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro' the shade, and Come down to your brow Like- eyes of the maiden Who calls on you now- Arise! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours- And shake from your tresses Encumber'd with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too- (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true Love That lull'd ye to rest! Up!- shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the night- It would weigh down your flight And true love caresses- O, leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart. Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatros, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep- But the strains still arise Which thy vigilance keep- The sound of the rain, Which leaps down to the flower- And dances again In the rhythm of the shower- The murmur that springs From the growing of grass Are the music of things- But are modell'd, alas!- Away, then, my dearest, Oh! hie thee away To the springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray- To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast- Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid- Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the bee- Arouse them, my maiden, On moorland and lea- Go! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, Thy musical number They slumbered to hear- For what can awaken An angel so soon, Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull'd him to rest?' Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro', Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight- Seraphs in all but 'Knowledge,' the keen light That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar, O Death! from eye of God upon that star: Sweet was that error- sweeter still that death- Sweet was that error- even with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy- To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy- For what (to them) availeth it to know That Truth is Falsehood- or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet was their death- with them to die was rife With the last ecstasy of satiate life- Beyond that death no immortality- But sleep that pondereth and is not 'to be'!- And there- oh! may my weary spirit dwell- Apart from Heaven's Eternity- and yet how far from Hell! What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn? But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts To those who hear not for their beating hearts. A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover- O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? Unguided Love hath fallen- 'mid 'tears of perfect moan.' He was a goodly spirit- he who fell: A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well- A gazer on the lights that shine above- A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair- And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of woe) Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo- Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sat he with his love- his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament: Now turn'd it upon her- but ever then It trembled to the orb of EARTH again. 'Ianthe, dearest, see- how dim that ray! How lovely 'tis to look so far away! She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls- nor mourn'd to leave. That eve- that eve- I should remember well- The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall- And on my eyelids- O the heavy light! How drowsily it weigh'd them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: But O that light!- I slumber'd- Death, the while, Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no single silken hair Awoke that slept- or knew that he was there. 'The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon; More beauty clung around her column'd wall Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal, And when old Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I- as the eagle from his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung, One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view- Tenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wish'd to be again of men.' 'My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee- And greener fields than in yon world above, And woman's loveliness- and passionate love.' 'But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy- but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl'd- Sprang from her station, on the winds apart. And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar And fell- not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro' Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours, For nearest of all stars was thine to ours- Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Daedalion on the timid Earth.' 'We came- and to thy Earth- but not to us Be given our lady's bidding to discuss: We came, my love; around, above, below, Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod She grants to us, as granted by her God- But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd Never his fairy wing O'er fairier world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea- But when its glory swell'd upon the sky, As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye, We paused before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled- as doth Beauty then!' Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16487"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16487,
        ""poem.id"": 16487,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elizabeth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16488"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16488,
        ""poem.id"": 16488,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The City In The Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters he. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently- Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls- Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls- Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers- Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye- Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass- No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea- No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave- there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide- As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow- The hours are breathing faint and low- And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16489"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16489,
        ""poem.id"": 16489,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spirits Of The Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16490"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16490,
        ""poem.id"": 16490,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bells"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I Hear the sledges with the bells- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And an in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells, bells- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bells- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now- now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows: Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells- Of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells, bells- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells- Iron Bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people- ah, the people- They that dwell up in the steeple, All Alone And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone- They are neither man nor woman- They are neither brute nor human- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells- To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells: To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- Bells, bells, bells- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16491"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16491,
        ""poem.id"": 16491,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Enigma"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16492"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16492,
        ""poem.id"": 16492,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bridal Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16493"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16493,
        ""poem.id"": 16493,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:39:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Valentine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16494"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16494,
        ""poem.id"": 16494,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eulalie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16495"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16495,
        ""poem.id"": 16495,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dreamland"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule- From a wild clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE- out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters- lone and dead,- Their still waters- still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,- Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,- By the mountains- near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,- By the grey woods,- by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp- By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,- By each spot the most unholy- In each nook most melancholy- There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past- Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by- White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region- For the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not- dare not openly view it! Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16496"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16496,
        ""poem.id"": 16496,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dreams"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16497"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16497,
        ""poem.id"": 16497,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Evening Star"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16498"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16498,
        ""poem.id"": 16498,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16499"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16499,
        ""poem.id"": 16499,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eldorado"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16500"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16500,
        ""poem.id"": 16500,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Raven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'- Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more.' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. 'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as 'Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'.' But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' 'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' 'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' 'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked, upstarting- 'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16501"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16501,
        ""poem.id"": 16501,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16502"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16502,
        ""poem.id"": 16502,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream Within A Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    },
    ""16503"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16503,
        ""poem.id"": 16503,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Annabel Lee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Edgar Allan Poe""
    }
}"
8,"2018-02-28 20:28:35","William Wordsworth","{
    ""281"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 281,
        ""poem.id"": 281,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Descriptive Sketches Taken During A Pedestrian Tour Among The Alps"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/27/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WERE there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given Where falls the purple morning far and wide In flakes of light upon the mountain side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; At least, not owning to himself an aim To which the sage would give a prouder name. No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? Upward he looks- 'and calls it luxury:' Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; In every babbling brook he finds a friend; While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the sun uplift his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, To light him shaken by his rugged way. Back from his sight no bashful children steal; He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; His humble looks no shy restraint impart; Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. A hope, that prudence could not then approve, That clung to Nature with a truant's love, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led; Her files of road-elms, high above my head In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze; Or where her pathways straggle as they please By lonely farms and secret villages. But lo! the Alps ascending white in air, Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear? 'That' Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, Chains that were loosened only by the sound Of holy rites chanted in measured round? - The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. The thundering tube the aged angler hears, Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears. Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads; Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start the astonished shades at female eyes. From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock The Cross, by angels planted on the aerial rock. The 'parting Genius' sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, Vallombre, 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. - To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain, From ringing team apart and grating wain- To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling- The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines; And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed In golden light; half hides itself in shade: While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw Rich golden verdure on the lake below. Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar; Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amorous music on the water dies. How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, Each with its household boat beside the door; Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky; Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high; That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descried Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey, 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray Slow-travelling down the western hills, to enfold Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass Along the steaming lake, to early mass. But now farewell to each and all- adieu To every charm, and last and chief to you, Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; To all that binds the soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. - Alas! the very murmur of the streams Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. Yet are thy softer arts with power indued To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. But once I pierced the mazes of a wood In which a cabin undeserted stood; There an old man an olden measure scanned On a rude viol touched with withered hand. As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, His children's children listened to the sound; - A Hermit with his family around! But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles: Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam. From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow: Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on- a mighty caravan of pain: Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. - There be whose lot far otherwise is cast: Sole human tenant of the piny waste, By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, A nursling babe her only comforter; Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke! When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road- She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge; a the bridge, ill that dread hour, Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. Nor is she more at ease on some 'still' night, When not a star supplies the comfort of its light; Only the waning moon hangs dull and red Above a melancholy mountain's head, Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes; Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide; By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they; By cells upon whose image, while he prays, The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze; By many a votive death-cross planted near, And watered duly with the pious tear, That faded silent from the upward eye Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh; Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. But soon a peopled region on the sight Opens- a little world of calm delight; Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, Spread rooflike o'er the deep secluded vale, And beams of evening slipping in between, Gently illuminate a sober scene:- Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. On as we journey, in clear view displayed, The still vale lengthens underneath its shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles; - the dim bowers recede. While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, And antique castles seen through gleamy showers. From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake! To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread: The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech; Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. Yet here and there, if mid the savage scene Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep, - Before those thresholds (never can they know The face of traveller passing to and fro,) No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. Yet thither the world's business finds its way At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, And 'there' are those fond thoughts which Solitude, However stern, is powerless to exclude. There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; At midnight listens till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons, cry Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; Contentment shares the desolate domain With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form! Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun The 'west', that burns like one dilated sun, A crucible of mighty compass, felt By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. And who, that walks where men of ancient days Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, Feels not the spirit of the place control, Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in 'faint huzzas' expired? But now with other mind I stand alone Upon the summit of this naked cone, And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep; Where silent Hours their deathlike sway extend, Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. - 'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height, To see a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night; While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound Of ether, shining with diminished round, And far and wide the icy summits blaze, Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: To him the day-star glitters small and bright, Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view Those fast-receding depths of sable blue Flying till vision can no more pursue! - At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow, with angry roar Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink; Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink; And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights. - Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. - And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, Nought but the 'chalets', flat and bare, on high Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouses the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, And with that voice accords the soothing sound Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady 'sugh'; The solitary heifer's deepened low; Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, Blend in a music of tranquillity; Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. When, from the sunny breast of open seas, And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze Comes on to gladden April with the sight Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, Leaving to silence the deserted vale; And like the Patriarchs in their simple age Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage: High and more high in summer's heat they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; Another, high on that green ledge; - he gained The tempting spot with every sinew strained; And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. - Far different life from what Tradition hoar Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: Continual waters welling cheered the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. Thus does the father to his children tell Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, Gapes in the centre of the sea- and, through That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound Innumerable streams with roar profound. Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, And merry flageolet; the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, Talk, laughter, and perchance a churchtower knell: Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less Alive to independent happiness, Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at eventide Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blest as free- for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, Walked none restraining, and by none restrained Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The simple dignity no forms debase; The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared With this 'the blessings he enjoys to guard.' And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous victory renowned, The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, innumerable foes, When to those famous fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign. And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, He holds with God himself communion high, There where the peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or when, upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. And when a gathering weight of shadows brown Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red- Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which on the hills so oft employs His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends A little prattling child, he oft descends, To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; The bound of all his vanity, to deck, With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. - Alas! in every clime a flying ray Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; And here the unwilling mind may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race; The churlish gales of penury, that blow Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, To them the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more; - compelled by Powers which only deign That 'solitary' man disturb their reign, Powers that support an unremitting strife With all the tender charities of life, Full oft the father, when his sons have grown To manhood, seems their title to disown; And from his nest amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; With stern composure watches to the plain- And never, eagle-like, beholds again! When long-familiar joys are all resigned, Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, And search the affections to their inmost cell; Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Alas! the little joy to man allowed Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; Or like the beauty in a flower installed, Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, We still confide in more than we can know; Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, Between interminable tracts of pine, Within a temple stands an awful shrine, By an uncertain light revealed, that falls On the mute Image and the troubled walls. Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's wretched fane. While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; While prayer contends with silenced agony, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope- oh, pass and leave it there! The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains reared for them amid the waste! Their thirst they slake:- they wash their toil-worn feet And some with tears of joy each other greet. Yes, I must see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment will for you a sigh Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; In that glad moment when your hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast! Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend; - A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned, They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height That holds no commerce with the summer night. From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; Appalling havoc! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow; Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale! Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slaves of slaves, art doomed to pine And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, While the remotest hamlets blessings share In thy loved presence known, and only there; 'Heart'-blessings- outward treasures too which the eye Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify. There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,- To greet the traveller needing food and rest; Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; Though martial songs have banished songs of love, And nightingales desert the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry! - Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; With more majestic course the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. - But foes are gathering- Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower! - Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! - All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous, 'Here the flood shall stay,' May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1791 & 1792."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""282"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 282,
        ""poem.id"": 282,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From The South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""283"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 283,
        ""poem.id"": 283,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Supreme Being From The Italian Of Michael Angelo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""284"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 284,
        ""poem.id"": 284,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:03:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Oak Of Guernica Supposed Address To The Same"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""285"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 285,
        ""poem.id"": 285,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Translation Of Part Of The First Book Of The Aeneid"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""286"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 286,
        ""poem.id"": 286,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Memory Of Raisley Calvert"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""287"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 287,
        ""poem.id"": 287,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Thomas Clarkson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""288"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 288,
        ""poem.id"": 288,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""289"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 289,
        ""poem.id"": 289,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia—Milan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/28/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Tho' searching damps and many an envious flawHave marred this Work, the calm ethereal grace,The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,The mercy, goodness, have not failed to aweThe Elements; as they do melt and thawThe heart of the Beholder- and erase(At least for one rapt moment) every traceOf disobedience to the primal law.The annunciation of the dreadful truthMade to the Twelve, survives: lips, forehead, cheek,And hand reposing on the board in ruthOf what it utters, while the unguilty seekUnquestionable meanings, still bespeakA labour worthy of eternal youth!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""290"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 290,
        ""poem.id"": 290,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prioress’s Tale [from Chaucer]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""291"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 291,
        ""poem.id"": 291,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Same (John Dyer)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""292"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 292,
        ""poem.id"": 292,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""293"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 293,
        ""poem.id"": 293,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Waggoner - Canto Fourth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""294"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 294,
        ""poem.id"": 294,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Waggoner - Canto Second"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""295"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 295,
        ""poem.id"": 295,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:04:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Recluse - Book First"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""296"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 296,
        ""poem.id"": 296,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To---- On Her First Ascent To The Summit Of Helvellyn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""297"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 297,
        ""poem.id"": 297,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Martial Courage Of A Day Is Vain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""298"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 298,
        ""poem.id"": 298,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Poet, John Dyer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""299"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 299,
        ""poem.id"": 299,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Spade Of A Friend (An Agriculturist)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""300"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 300,
        ""poem.id"": 300,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Mary"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""301"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 301,
        ""poem.id"": 301,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pet-Lamb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""302"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 302,
        ""poem.id"": 302,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Waggoner - Canto Third"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""303"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 303,
        ""poem.id"": 303,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Fifth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""304"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 304,
        ""poem.id"": 304,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto First"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""305"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 305,
        ""poem.id"": 305,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Seventh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""306"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 306,
        ""poem.id"": 306,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Lady Eleanor Butler And The Honourable Miss Ponsonby,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""307"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 307,
        ""poem.id"": 307,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:05:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Faëry Chasm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""No fiction was it of the antique age:A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,Is of the very footmarks unbereftWhich tiny Elves impressed; - on that smooth stageDancing with all their brilliant equipageIn secret revels - haply after theftOf some sweet Babe - Flower stolen, and coarse Weed leftFor the distracted Mother to assuageHer grief with, as she might! - But, where, oh! whereIs traceable a vestige of the notesThat ruled those dances wild in character? -Deep underground? Or in the upper air,On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floatsO'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""308"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 308,
        ""poem.id"": 308,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Redbreast Chasing the Butterfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,The pious bird with the scarlet breast,Our little English Robin;The bird that comes about our doorsWhen Autumn-winds are sobbing?Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?Their Thomas in Finland,And Russia far inland?The bird, that by some name or otherAll men who know thee call their brother,The darling of children and men?Could Father Adam open his eyesAnd see this sight beneath the skies,He'd wish to close them again.—If the Butterfly knew but his friend,Hither his flight he would bend;And find his way to me,Under the branches of the tree:In and out, he darts about;Can this be the bird, to man so good,That, after their bewildering,Covered with leaves the little children,So painfully in the wood? What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursueA beautiful creature,That is gentle by nature?Beneath the summer skyFrom flower to flower let him fly;'Tis all that he wishes to do.The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,He is the friend of our summer gladness:What hinders, then, that ye should bePlaymates in the sunny weather,And fly about in the air together!His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,A crimson as bright as thine own:Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,O pious Bird! whom man loves best,Love him, or leave him alone!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""309"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 309,
        ""poem.id"": 309,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Oak And The Broom"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""310"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 310,
        ""poem.id"": 310,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Sixth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""311"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 311,
        ""poem.id"": 311,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Third"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""312"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 312,
        ""poem.id"": 312,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Second"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""313"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 313,
        ""poem.id"": 313,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Passing Of The Elder Bards"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""314"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 314,
        ""poem.id"": 314,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The King Of Sweden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""315"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 315,
        ""poem.id"": 315,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Fourth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""316"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 316,
        ""poem.id"": 316,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Men Of Kent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""317"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 317,
        ""poem.id"": 317,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Small Celandine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""318"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 318,
        ""poem.id"": 318,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Waggoner - Canto First"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""319"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 319,
        ""poem.id"": 319,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:06:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Dedication"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""320"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 320,
        ""poem.id"": 320,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Female Vagrant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/7/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,(The Woman thus her artless story told)One field, a flock, and what the neighboring floodSupplied, to him were more than mines of gold.Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shoreMy father's nets, or watched, when from the foldHigh o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store,A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar.My father was a good and pious man,An honest man, by honest parents bred,And I believe that, soon as I beganTo lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,And in his hearing there my prayers I said:And afterwards, by my good father taught,I read, and loved the books in which I read;For books in every neighboring house I sought,And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.Can I forget what charms did once adornMy garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,And rose and lily for the sabbath morn?The sabbath bells, and the delightful chime;The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;The swans, that when I sought the water-side,From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.The staff I yet remember which upboreThe bending body of my active sire;His seat beneath the honeyed sycamoreWhen the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;When market-morning came, the neat attireWith which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd;My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,When stranger passed, so often I have check'd;The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd.The suns of twenty summers danced along, -Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:Then rose a mansion proud our woods among,And cottage after cottage owned its sway,No joy to see a neighboring house, or strayThrough pastures not his own, the master took;My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;He loved his old hereditary nook,And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.But, when he had refused the proffered gold,To cruel injuries he became a prey,Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:His troubles grew upon him day by day,Till all his substance fell into decay.His little range of water was denied;All but the bed where his old body lay,All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.Can I forget that miserable hour,When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,Peering above the trees, the steeple tower,That on his marriage-day sweet music made?Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,Close by my mother in their native bowers:Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, — I could not pray: — through tears that fell in showers,Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!There was a youth whom I had loved so long,That when I loved him not I cannot say.‘Mid the green mountains many and many a songWe two had sung, like little birds in May.When we began to tire of childish playWe seemed still more and more to prize each other:We talked of marriage and our marriage day;And I in truth did love him like a brother,For never could I hope to meet with such another.His father said, that to a distant townHe must repair, to ply the artist's trade.What tears of bitter grief till then unknown!What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!To him we turned: — we had no other aid.Like one revived, upon his neck I wept,And her whom he had loved in joy, he saidHe well could love in grief: his faith he kept;And in a quiet home once more my father slept"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16544"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16544,
        ""poem.id"": 16544,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Highland Broach"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16545"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16545,
        ""poem.id"": 16545,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon Perusing The Forgoing Epistle Thirty Years After Its Composition"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16546"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16546,
        ""poem.id"": 16546,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Water-Fowl Observed Frequently Over The Lakes Of Rydal And Grasmere"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16547"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16547,
        ""poem.id"": 16547,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:40:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shepherd, Looking Eastward, Softly Said"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16548"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16548,
        ""poem.id"": 16548,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Siege Of Vienna Raised By John Sobieski"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16549"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16549,
        ""poem.id"": 16549,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Troilus And Cresida"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16550"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16550,
        ""poem.id"": 16550,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Have Borne In Memory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16551"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16551,
        ""poem.id"": 16551,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To M.H."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16552"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16552,
        ""poem.id"": 16552,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Horn Of Egremont Castle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16553"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16553,
        ""poem.id"": 16553,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Idle Shepherd Boys"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16554"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16554,
        ""poem.id"": 16554,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:41:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon The Sight Of A Beautiful Picture Painted By Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16555"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16555,
        ""poem.id"": 16555,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon The Same Event"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16556"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16556,
        ""poem.id"": 16556,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To B. R. Haydon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16557"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16557,
        ""poem.id"": 16557,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Power Of Armies Is A Visible Thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16558"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16558,
        ""poem.id"": 16558,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When To The Attractions Of The Busy World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16559"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16559,
        ""poem.id"": 16559,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Lies The Land To Which Yon Ship Must Go?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16560"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16560,
        ""poem.id"": 16560,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cottager To Her Infant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16561"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16561,
        ""poem.id"": 16561,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon The Punishment Of Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16562"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16562,
        ""poem.id"": 16562,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Though Narrow Be That Old Man’s Cares ."",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16563"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16563,
        ""poem.id"": 16563,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Weak Is The Will Of Man, His Judgement Blind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16564"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16564,
        ""poem.id"": 16564,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:42:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""View From The Top Of Black Comb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16565"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16565,
        ""poem.id"": 16565,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vaudracour And Julia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16566"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16566,
        ""poem.id"": 16566,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Germans On The Heighs Of Hochheim"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16567"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16567,
        ""poem.id"": 16567,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thought Of A Briton On The Subjugation Of Switzerland"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16568"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16568,
        ""poem.id"": 16568,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Those Words Were Uttered As In Pensive Mood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16569"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16569,
        ""poem.id"": 16569,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Daisy (Third Poem)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16570"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16570,
        ""poem.id"": 16570,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To May"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16571"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16571,
        ""poem.id"": 16571,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Force Of Prayer, Or, The Founding Of Bolton, A Tradition"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16572"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16572,
        ""poem.id"": 16572,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: On Seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams Weep At A Tale Of Distress"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16573"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16573,
        ""poem.id"": 16573,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Primrose Of The Rock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16574"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16574,
        ""poem.id"": 16574,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The French Army In Russia, 1812-13"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16575"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16575,
        ""poem.id"": 16575,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spanish Guerillas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16576"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16576,
        ""poem.id"": 16576,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Lady Beaumont"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16577"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16577,
        ""poem.id"": 16577,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:43:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Stars Are Mansions Built By Nature's Hand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16578"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16578,
        ""poem.id"": 16578,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vernal Ode"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16579"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16579,
        ""poem.id"": 16579,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Emigrant Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16580"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16580,
        ""poem.id"": 16580,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fairest, Brightest, Hues Of Ether Fade"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16581"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16581,
        ""poem.id"": 16581,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To H. C."",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16582"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16582,
        ""poem.id"": 16582,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Russian Fugitive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16583"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16583,
        ""poem.id"": 16583,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Young Lady Who Had Been Reproached For Taking Long Walks In The Country"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16585"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16585,
        ""poem.id"": 16585,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Distant Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16587"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16587,
        ""poem.id"": 16587,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Daisy (Fourth Poem)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16588"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16588,
        ""poem.id"": 16588,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Same Flower (Second Poem)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16589"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16589,
        ""poem.id"": 16589,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O’erweening Statesmen Have Full Long Relied"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16590"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16590,
        ""poem.id"": 16590,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Twelfth [imagination And Taste, How Impaired And Restored ]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16591"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16591,
        ""poem.id"": 16591,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:44:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sailor's Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16592"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16592,
        ""poem.id"": 16592,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16593"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16593,
        ""poem.id"": 16593,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Fancied What A Pretty Sight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16594"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16594,
        ""poem.id"": 16594,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Farmer Of Tilsbury Vale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16595"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16595,
        ""poem.id"": 16595,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Longest Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16596"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16596,
        ""poem.id"": 16596,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Table Turned"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16597"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16597,
        ""poem.id"": 16597,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 I. Departure From The Vale Of Grasmere, August 1803"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16598"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16598,
        ""poem.id"": 16598,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Thirteenth [imagination And Taste, How Impaired And Restored Concluded]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16600"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16600,
        ""poem.id"": 16600,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On The Expected Invasion, 1803"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16601"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16601,
        ""poem.id"": 16601,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sonnet Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16602"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16602,
        ""poem.id"": 16602,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is A Bondage Worse, Far Worse, To Bear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16603"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16603,
        ""poem.id"": 16603,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 Xiv. Fly, Some Kind Haringer, To Grasmere-Dale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16604"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16604,
        ""poem.id"": 16604,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sweet Was The Walk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2011"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16605"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16605,
        ""poem.id"": 16605,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:45:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Pleasures"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16606"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16606,
        ""poem.id"": 16606,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prelude, Book 2: School-Time (Continued)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16607"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16607,
        ""poem.id"": 16607,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Eagle And The Dove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16608"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16608,
        ""poem.id"": 16608,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Cuckoo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16610"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16610,
        ""poem.id"": 16610,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In A Blank Leaf Of Macpherson's Ossian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16611"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16611,
        ""poem.id"": 16611,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Second [school-Time Continued]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16612"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16612,
        ""poem.id"": 16612,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mark The Concentrated Hazels That Enclose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16613"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16613,
        ""poem.id"": 16613,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour Of Scotland, 1803 Vi. Glen-Almain, Or, The Narrow Glen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16614"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16614,
        ""poem.id"": 16614,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Eleventh: France [concluded]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16615"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16615,
        ""poem.id"": 16615,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 Xii. Sonnet Composed At ---- Castle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16616"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16616,
        ""poem.id"": 16616,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 X. Rob Roy’s Grave ."",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16617"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16617,
        ""poem.id"": 16617,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O’er The Wide Earth, On Mountain And On Plain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16618"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16618,
        ""poem.id"": 16618,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:46:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16619"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16619,
        ""poem.id"": 16619,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 Xii. Yarrow Unvisited"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16620"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16620,
        ""poem.id"": 16620,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Seven Sisters"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16621"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16621,
        ""poem.id"": 16621,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Feelings Of A Noble Biscayan At One Of Those Funerals"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16622"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16622,
        ""poem.id"": 16622,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mother's Return"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16623"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16623,
        ""poem.id"": 16623,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Kitten And Falling Leaves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16624"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16624,
        ""poem.id"": 16624,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Invocation To The Earth, February 1816"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16625"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16625,
        ""poem.id"": 16625,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland 1814 I. Suggested By A Beautiful Ruin Upon One Of The Islands Of Loch Lomond,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16626"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16626,
        ""poem.id"": 16626,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Ninth [residence In France]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16627"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16627,
        ""poem.id"": 16627,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Same Occasion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16628"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16628,
        ""poem.id"": 16628,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hoffer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16629"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16629,
        ""poem.id"": 16629,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscriptions For A Seat In The Groves Of Coleorton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16631"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16631,
        ""poem.id"": 16631,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:47:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By Moscow Self-Devoted To A Blaze"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16632"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16632,
        ""poem.id"": 16632,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Feelings Of The Tyrolese"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16633"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16633,
        ""poem.id"": 16633,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Feelings Of A French Royalist, On The Disinterment Of The Remains Of The Duke D’enghien"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16634"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16634,
        ""poem.id"": 16634,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed At The Same Time And On The Same Occasion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16635"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16635,
        ""poem.id"": 16635,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaphs Translated From Chiabrera"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16636"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16636,
        ""poem.id"": 16636,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written On A Blank Leaf In A Copy Of The Author’s Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16637"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16637,
        ""poem.id"": 16637,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hint From The Mountains For Certain Political Pretenders"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16638"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16638,
        ""poem.id"": 16638,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""George And Sarah Green"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16639"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16639,
        ""poem.id"": 16639,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Avaunt All Specious Pliancy Of Mind"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16640"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16640,
        ""poem.id"": 16640,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hail, Zaragoza! If With Unwet Eye"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16641"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16641,
        ""poem.id"": 16641,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On A Celebrated Event In Ancient History"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16642"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16642,
        ""poem.id"": 16642,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brave Schill! By Death Delivered"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16643"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16643,
        ""poem.id"": 16643,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By The Side Of The Grave Some Years After"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16644"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16644,
        ""poem.id"": 16644,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:48:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16645"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16645,
        ""poem.id"": 16645,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Star-Gazers"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""16646"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16646,
        ""poem.id"": 16646,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Occasioned By The Battle Of Waterloo February 1816"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16647"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16647,
        ""poem.id"": 16647,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16648"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16648,
        ""poem.id"": 16648,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Lycoris. May 1817"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16649"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16649,
        ""poem.id"": 16649,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed After A Journey Across The Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""16650"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16650,
        ""poem.id"": 16650,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Fourteenth [conclusion]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16651"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16651,
        ""poem.id"": 16651,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Picture Of Daniel In The Lion's Den At Hamilton Palace"",
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    ""16652"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16652,
        ""poem.id"": 16652,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hail, Twilight, Sovereign Of One Peaceful Hour"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""16653"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16653,
        ""poem.id"": 16653,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prelude. (Book V )"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
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    ""16654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16654,
        ""poem.id"": 16654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""September 1815"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""16655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16655,
        ""poem.id"": 16655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Cuckoo And The Nightingale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16656,
        ""poem.id"": 16656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Italian Of Michael Angelo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16657,
        ""poem.id"": 16657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Extract From The Conclusion Of A Poem Composed In Anticipation Of Leaving School"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16658,
        ""poem.id"": 16658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:49:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here Pause: The Poet Claims At Least This Praise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16659,
        ""poem.id"": 16659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Grieved For Buonaparte"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16660,
        ""poem.id"": 16660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Fourth [summer Vacation]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16661,
        ""poem.id"": 16661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Sweet It Is, When Mother Fancy Rocks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16662,
        ""poem.id"": 16662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England! The Time Is Come When Thou Should’st Wean"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16663,
        ""poem.id"": 16663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Is No Spirit Who From Heaven Hath Flown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16665,
        ""poem.id"": 16665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Calais, August 15, 1802"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16666,
        ""poem.id"": 16666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16667,
        ""poem.id"": 16667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Emperors And Kings, How Oft Have Temples Rung"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16669,
        ""poem.id"": 16669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Michael Angelo In Reply To The Passage Upon His Staute Of Sleeping Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16670"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16670,
        ""poem.id"": 16670,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""And Is It Among Rude Untutored Dales"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16671,
        ""poem.id"": 16671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Trosachs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16672,
        ""poem.id"": 16672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From The Dark Chambers Of Dejection Freed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16673,
        ""poem.id"": 16673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed Near Calais, On The Road Leading To Ardres, August 7, 1802"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16674,
        ""poem.id"": 16674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:50:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Young England--What Is Then Become Of Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16675,
        ""poem.id"": 16675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscriptions In The Ground Of Coleorton, The Seat Of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16676,
        ""poem.id"": 16676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Methought I Saw The Footsteps Of A Throne"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16677,
        ""poem.id"": 16677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed On The Eve Of The Marriage Of A Friend In The Vale Of Grasmere"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16678,
        ""poem.id"": 16678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Is There A Power That Can Sustain And Cheer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16679"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16679,
        ""poem.id"": 16679,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Call Not The Royal Swede Unfortunate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16683,
        ""poem.id"": 16683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maternal Grief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16684,
        ""poem.id"": 16684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Say, What Is Honour?--‘tis The Finest Sense"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16685,
        ""poem.id"": 16685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Tenth {residence In France Continued]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16686"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16686,
        ""poem.id"": 16686,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yes! Thou Art Fair, Yet Be Not Moved"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16688"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16688,
        ""poem.id"": 16688,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Matthew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16689"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16689,
        ""poem.id"": 16689,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Even As A Dragon’s Eye That Feels The Stress"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16691"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16691,
        ""poem.id"": 16691,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written Upon A Blank Leaf In"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16692"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16692,
        ""poem.id"": 16692,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:51:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In Very Early Youth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16693"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16693,
        ""poem.id"": 16693,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gipsies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16694"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16694,
        ""poem.id"": 16694,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book First [introduction-Childhood And School Time]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16695"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16695,
        ""poem.id"": 16695,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Seventh [residence In London]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16696"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16696,
        ""poem.id"": 16696,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""At Applewaite, Near Keswick 1804"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16697"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16697,
        ""poem.id"": 16697,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Artegal And Elidure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16698"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16698,
        ""poem.id"": 16698,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Repentance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16699"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16699,
        ""poem.id"": 16699,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Calais, August 1802"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16700"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16700,
        ""poem.id"": 16700,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Fifth-Books"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16701"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16701,
        ""poem.id"": 16701,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sonnet I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16702"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16702,
        ""poem.id"": 16702,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16703"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16703,
        ""poem.id"": 16703,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:52:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed By The Sea-Side, Near Calais, August 1802"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16704"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16704,
        ""poem.id"": 16704,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Louisa: After Accompanying Her On A Mountain Excursion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16705"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16705,
        ""poem.id"": 16705,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Valedictory Sonnet To The River Duddon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16706"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16706,
        ""poem.id"": 16706,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Virgin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16707"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16707,
        ""poem.id"": 16707,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed While The Author Was Engaged In Writing A Tract Occasioned By The Convention Of Cintra"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16709"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16709,
        ""poem.id"": 16709,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Waterfall And The Eglantine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16710"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16710,
        ""poem.id"": 16710,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alas! What Boots The Long Laborious Quest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16711"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16711,
        ""poem.id"": 16711,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Two Thieves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16712"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16712,
        ""poem.id"": 16712,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16713"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16713,
        ""poem.id"": 16713,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Indignation Of A High-Minded Spaniard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16714"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16714,
        ""poem.id"": 16714,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song At The Feast Of Brougham Castle Upon The Restoration O"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16715"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16715,
        ""poem.id"": 16715,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song For The Wandering Jew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16716"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16716,
        ""poem.id"": 16716,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""September, 1819"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16718"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16718,
        ""poem.id"": 16718,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bothwell Castle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16719"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16719,
        ""poem.id"": 16719,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:53:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prelude, Book 1: Childhood And School-Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16720"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16720,
        ""poem.id"": 16720,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Minstrels"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16722"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16722,
        ""poem.id"": 16722,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Characteristics Of A Child Three Years Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16723"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16723,
        ""poem.id"": 16723,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fidelity"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16724"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16724,
        ""poem.id"": 16724,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Said, That Some Have Died For Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16725"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16725,
        ""poem.id"": 16725,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Sexton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16726"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16726,
        ""poem.id"": 16726,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Power Of Music"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16727"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16727,
        ""poem.id"": 16727,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Green Linnet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16728"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16728,
        ""poem.id"": 16728,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yew-Trees"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16729"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16729,
        ""poem.id"": 16729,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beggars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16730"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16730,
        ""poem.id"": 16730,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ah! Where Is Palafox? Nor Tongue Nor Pen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16731"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16731,
        ""poem.id"": 16731,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sparrow's Nest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16732"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16732,
        ""poem.id"": 16732,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:54:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Joanna"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16733"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16733,
        ""poem.id"": 16733,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Anticipation, October 1803"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16734"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16734,
        ""poem.id"": 16734,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Highland Girl (At Inversneyde, Upon Loch Lomond)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16735"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16735,
        ""poem.id"": 16735,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The French Revolution As It Appeared To Enthusiasts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16736"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16736,
        ""poem.id"": 16736,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stepping Westward"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16737"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16737,
        ""poem.id"": 16737,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Argument For Suicide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/14/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Send this man to the mine, this to the battle, Famish an aged beggar at your gates, And let him die by inches- but for worlds Lift not your hand against him- Live, live on, As if this earth owned neither steel nor arsenic, A rope, a river, or a standing pool. Live, if you dread the pains of hell, or think Your corpse would quarrel with a stake- alas Has misery then no friend?- if you would die By license, call the dropsy and the stone And let them end you- strange it is; And most fantastic are the magic circles Drawn round the thing called life- till we have learned To prize it less, we ne'er shall learn to prize The things worth living for.-"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16738"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16738,
        ""poem.id"": 16738,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Book Eighth: Retrospect--Love Of Nature Leading To Love Of Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16739"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16739,
        ""poem.id"": 16739,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Advance – Come Forth From Thy Tyrolean Ground"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16740"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16740,
        ""poem.id"": 16740,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stanzas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16741"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16741,
        ""poem.id"": 16741,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Reaper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16742"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16742,
        ""poem.id"": 16742,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Two April Mornings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16743"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16743,
        ""poem.id"": 16743,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To My Sister"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16744"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16744,
        ""poem.id"": 16744,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:55:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prophecy. February 1807"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16745"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16745,
        ""poem.id"": 16745,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode, Composed On A May Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16746"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16746,
        ""poem.id"": 16746,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Was A Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16747"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16747,
        ""poem.id"": 16747,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Extinction Of The Venetian Republic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16748"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16748,
        ""poem.id"": 16748,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alice Fell, Or Poverty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16749"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16749,
        ""poem.id"": 16749,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Departure Of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16750"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16750,
        ""poem.id"": 16750,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To Kilchurn Castle, Upon Loch Awe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16751"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16751,
        ""poem.id"": 16751,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Complaint Of A Forsaken Indian Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16752"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16752,
        ""poem.id"": 16752,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In The Pass Of Killicranky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16753"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16753,
        ""poem.id"": 16753,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Reverie Of Poor Susan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16754"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16754,
        ""poem.id"": 16754,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""October, 1803"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16755"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16755,
        ""poem.id"": 16755,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In Germany, On One Of The Coldest Days Of The Century"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16756"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16756,
        ""poem.id"": 16756,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To My Infant Daughter, Dora On Being Reminded That She Was A Month Old That Day, September 1"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16757"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16757,
        ""poem.id"": 16757,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:56:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With Ships The Sea Was Sprinkled"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16758"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16758,
        ""poem.id"": 16758,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inside Of King's College Chapel, Cambridge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16759"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16759,
        ""poem.id"": 16759,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Forsaken"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16760"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16760,
        ""poem.id"": 16760,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed By The Side Of Grasmere Lake 1806"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16761"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16761,
        ""poem.id"": 16761,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16762"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16762,
        ""poem.id"": 16762,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fountain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16763"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16763,
        ""poem.id"": 16763,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Remembrance Of Collins"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16764"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16764,
        ""poem.id"": 16764,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England Iv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16765"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16765,
        ""poem.id"": 16765,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Speak!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16766"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16766,
        ""poem.id"": 16766,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Thorn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16767"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16767,
        ""poem.id"": 16767,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Is Not To Be Thought Of"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16768"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16768,
        ""poem.id"": 16768,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16769"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16769,
        ""poem.id"": 16769,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Admonition"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16770"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16770,
        ""poem.id"": 16770,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16771"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16771,
        ""poem.id"": 16771,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:57:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun Has Long Been Set"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16772"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16772,
        ""poem.id"": 16772,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yarrow Revisited"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16773"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16773,
        ""poem.id"": 16773,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rural Architecture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16774"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16774,
        ""poem.id"": 16774,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know An Old Man Constrained To Dwell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16775"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16775,
        ""poem.id"": 16775,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oak And The Broom, The: A Pastoral Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16776"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16776,
        ""poem.id"": 16776,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""November, 1806"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16777"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16777,
        ""poem.id"": 16777,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb'st The Sky"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16778"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16778,
        ""poem.id"": 16778,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16779"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16779,
        ""poem.id"": 16779,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peter Bell, A Tale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16780"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16780,
        ""poem.id"": 16780,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For The Spot Where The Hermitage Stood On St. Herbert's Island, Derwentwater."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16781"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16781,
        ""poem.id"": 16781,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Sky-Lark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16782"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16782,
        ""poem.id"": 16782,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode Composed On A May Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16783"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16783,
        ""poem.id"": 16783,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Due Observance Of An Ancient Rite"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16784"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16784,
        ""poem.id"": 16784,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:58:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yarrow Unvisited"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16785"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16785,
        ""poem.id"": 16785,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Laodamia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16786"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16786,
        ""poem.id"": 16786,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegiac Stanzas Suggested By A Picture Of Peele Castle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16787"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16787,
        ""poem.id"": 16787,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscriptions Written With A Slate Pencil Upon A Stone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16788"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16788,
        ""poem.id"": 16788,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England V"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16789"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16789,
        ""poem.id"": 16789,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written As A School Exercise At Hawkshead, Anno Aetatis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16790"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16790,
        ""poem.id"": 16790,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Danish Boy: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16791"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16791,
        ""poem.id"": 16791,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16792"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16792,
        ""poem.id"": 16792,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pet-Lamb, The: A Pastoral Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16793"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16793,
        ""poem.id"": 16793,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written With A Pencil Upon A Stone In The Wall Of The House, On The Island At Grasmere"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16794"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16794,
        ""poem.id"": 16794,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yarrow Visited"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16795,
        ""poem.id"": 16795,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 03:59:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mutability"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16796"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16796,
        ""poem.id"": 16796,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Of The Flock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16797"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16797,
        ""poem.id"": 16797,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16798"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16798,
        ""poem.id"": 16798,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Goody Blake And Harry Gill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16799"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16799,
        ""poem.id"": 16799,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16800"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16800,
        ""poem.id"": 16800,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Among All Lovely Things My Love Had Been"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16801,
        ""poem.id"": 16801,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Extempore Effusion Upon The Death Of James Hogg"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16802"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16802,
        ""poem.id"": 16802,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ellen Irwin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16803"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16803,
        ""poem.id"": 16803,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Duty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16804"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16804,
        ""poem.id"": 16804,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Butterfly (2)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16805,
        ""poem.id"": 16805,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Andrew Jones"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16806,
        ""poem.id"": 16806,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scorn Not The Sonnet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16807,
        ""poem.id"": 16807,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Years She Grew In Sun And Shower,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16808,
        ""poem.id"": 16808,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Left Upon A Seat In A Yew-Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16809,
        ""poem.id"": 16809,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegiac Stanzas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16810,
        ""poem.id"": 16810,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:00:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Old Cumberland Beggar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16811"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16811,
        ""poem.id"": 16811,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fountain, The: A Conversation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16812"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16812,
        ""poem.id"": 16812,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy V"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16813"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16813,
        ""poem.id"": 16813,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Parsonage In Oxfordshire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16814"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16814,
        ""poem.id"": 16814,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Fact, And An Imagination, Or, Canute And Alfred, On The Seashore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
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    ""16815"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16815,
        ""poem.id"": 16815,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16816"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16816,
        ""poem.id"": 16816,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Surprised By Joy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16817"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16817,
        ""poem.id"": 16817,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Butterfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16818"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16818,
        ""poem.id"": 16818,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hart-Leap Well"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16819"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16819,
        ""poem.id"": 16819,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy Iv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16820"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16820,
        ""poem.id"": 16820,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16821"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16821,
        ""poem.id"": 16821,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Influence Of Natural Objects"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16822"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16822,
        ""poem.id"": 16822,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Resolution And Independence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16823"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16823,
        ""poem.id"": 16823,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:01:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To The Scholars Of The Village School Of ----"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16824"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16824,
        ""poem.id"": 16824,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Michael: A Pastoral Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16825"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16825,
        ""poem.id"": 16825,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Personal Talk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16826"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16826,
        ""poem.id"": 16826,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Foresight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16827"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16827,
        ""poem.id"": 16827,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Travelled Among Unknown Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16828"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16828,
        ""poem.id"": 16828,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Sketch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16829"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16829,
        ""poem.id"": 16829,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Brothers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16830"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16830,
        ""poem.id"": 16830,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ruth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16831"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16831,
        ""poem.id"": 16831,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed During A Storm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16832"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16832,
        ""poem.id"": 16832,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Most Sweet It Is"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16833"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16833,
        ""poem.id"": 16833,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nuns Fret Not At Their Convent's Narrow Room"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16834"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16834,
        ""poem.id"": 16834,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In Early Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16835"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16835,
        ""poem.id"": 16835,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Guilt And Sorrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16836"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16836,
        ""poem.id"": 16836,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Desideria"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16837"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16837,
        ""poem.id"": 16837,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:02:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Animal Tranquillity And Decay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16838"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16838,
        ""poem.id"": 16838,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16839"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16839,
        ""poem.id"": 16839,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Is A Beauteous Evening"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16840"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16840,
        ""poem.id"": 16840,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16841"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16841,
        ""poem.id"": 16841,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Morning Exercise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad,Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;Sending sad shadows after things not sad,Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:Beneath her sway, a simple forest cryBecomes an echo of man's misery.Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owlTries his two voices for a favourite strain--'Tu-whit--Tu-whoo!' the unsuspecting fowlForebodes mishap or seems but to complain; Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.Through border wilds where naked Indians stray,Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;A feathered task-master cries, 'WORK AWAY!'And, in thy iteration, 'WHIP POOR WILL!'Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave,Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave.What wonder? at her bidding, ancient laysSteeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel; And that fleet messenger of summer days,The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell;But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant LarkTo melancholy service--hark! O hark!The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed;But 'He' is risen, a later star of dawn,Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud;Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark! Hail, blest above all kinds!--Supremely skilledRestless with fixed to balance, high with low,Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to buildOn such forbearance as the deep may show;Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties,Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise.Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove;Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee;So constant with thy downward eye of love,Yet, in aerial singleness, so free; So humble, yet so ready to rejoiceIn power of wing and never-wearied voice.To the last point of vision, and beyond,Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain,('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy spring.How would it please old Ocean to partake,With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, The harmony thy notes most gladly makeWhere earth resembles most his own domain!Urania's self might welcome with pleased earThese matins mounting towards her native sphere.Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no barsTo day-light known deter from that pursuit,'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the starsCome forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute;For not an eyelid could to sleep inclineWert thou among them, singing as they shine!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16842"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16842,
        ""poem.id"": 16842,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Birth Of Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16843"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16843,
        ""poem.id"": 16843,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Gravestone Upon The Floor In The Cloisters Of Worcester Cathedral"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16844"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16844,
        ""poem.id"": 16844,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written In Early Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16845"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16845,
        ""poem.id"": 16845,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Jewish Family In A Small Valley Opposite St. Goar, Upon The Rhine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16846"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16846,
        ""poem.id"": 16846,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Childless Father"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16847"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16847,
        ""poem.id"": 16847,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Idiot Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16848"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16848,
        ""poem.id"": 16848,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Was A Phantom Of Delight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16849"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16849,
        ""poem.id"": 16849,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Expostulation And Reply"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16850"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16850,
        ""poem.id"": 16850,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:03:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Character Of The Happy Warrior"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16851"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16851,
        ""poem.id"": 16851,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Evening On Calais Beach"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16852"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16852,
        ""poem.id"": 16852,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16853"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16853,
        ""poem.id"": 16853,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nutting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16854"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16854,
        ""poem.id"": 16854,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Evening Walk, Addressed To A Young Lady"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16855"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16855,
        ""poem.id"": 16855,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""London, 1802"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16856"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16856,
        ""poem.id"": 16856,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""After-Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16857"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16857,
        ""poem.id"": 16857,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Flower Garden At Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire."",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""TELL me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold,While fluttering o'er this gay Recess,Pinions that fanned the teeming mouldOf Eden's blissful wilderness,Did only softly-stealing hoursThere close the peaceful lives of flowers?Say, when the 'moving' creatures sawAll kinds commingled without fear,Prevailed a like indulgent lawFor the still growths that prosper here?Did wanton fawn and kid forbearThe half-blown rose, the lily spare?Or peeped they often from their bedsAnd prematurely disappeared,Devoured like pleasure ere it spreadsA bosom to the sun endeared?If such their harsh untimely doom,It falls not 'here' on bud or bloom.All summer long the happy EveOf this fair Spot her flowers may bind,Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve,From the next glance she casts, to findThat love for little things by FateIs rendered vain as love for great.Yet, where the guardian fence is wound,So subtly are our eyes beguiledWe see not nor suspect a bound,No more than in some forest wild;The sight is free as air--or crostOnly by art in nature lost.And, though the jealous turf refuseBy random footsteps to be prest,And feed on never-sullied dews,'Ye', gentle breezes from the west,With all the ministers of hopeAre tempted to this sunny slope!And hither throngs of birds resort;Some, inmates lodged in shady nests,Some, perched on stems of stately portThat nod to welcome transient guests;While hare and leveret, seen at play,'Appear' not more shut out than they.Apt emblem (for reproof of pride)This delicate Enclosure showsOf modest kindness, that would hideThe firm protection she bestows;Of manners, like its viewless fence,Ensuring peace to innocence.Thus spake the moral Muse--her wingAbruptly spreading to depart,She left that farewell offering,Momento for some docile heart;That may respect the good old ageWhen Fancy was Truth's willing Page;And Truth would skim the flowery glade,Though entering but as Fancy's Shade."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16858"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16858,
        ""poem.id"": 16858,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon Westminster Bridge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16859"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16859,
        ""poem.id"": 16859,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Wren's Nest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""AMONG the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care,Is none that with the little Wren's In snugness may compare.No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof;Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof.So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim,That to the Kind by special grace Their instinct surely came.And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess,The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness.These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, A canopy in some still nook;Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook.There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song;And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long.Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return,Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn.But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best;And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest;This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from outThe forehead of a pollard oak, The leafy antlers sprout;For She who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill,Had to a Primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfill. High on the trunk's projecting brow, And fixed an infant's span aboveThe budding flowers, peeped forth the nest The prettiest of the grove!The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdainCan turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain:'Tis gone---a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.Just three days after, passing by In clearer light the moss-built cellI saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well.The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves;And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent,Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent,Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam,When withered is the guardian Flower, And empty thy late home,Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Amid the unviolated groveHoused near the growing Primrose-tuft In foresight, or in love."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16860"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16860,
        ""poem.id"": 16860,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Poet! He Hath Put His Heart To School"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16861"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16861,
        ""poem.id"": 16861,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With Ships The Sea Was Sprinkled Far And Nigh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16862"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16862,
        ""poem.id"": 16862,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Perfect Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16863"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16863,
        ""poem.id"": 16863,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Anecdote For Fathers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16864"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16864,
        ""poem.id"": 16864,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tis Said, That Some Have Died For Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16865"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16865,
        ""poem.id"": 16865,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:04:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In March"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16866"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16866,
        ""poem.id"": 16866,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Poet's Epitaph"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Art thou a Statist in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred? --First learn to love one living man; 'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face. Art thou a Man of purple cheer? A rosy Man, right plump to see? Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, This grave no cushion is for thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride, A Soldier and no man of chaff? Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a peasant's staff. Physician art thou? one, all eyes, Philosopher! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanise Upon his mother's grave? Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, O turn aside,--and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All-in-all! Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noon-day grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love. The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart,-- The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak; both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. --Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16867"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16867,
        ""poem.id"": 16867,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By The Seaside"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16868"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16868,
        ""poem.id"": 16868,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lucy Gray, Or Solitude"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16869"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16869,
        ""poem.id"": 16869,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16870"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16870,
        ""poem.id"": 16870,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Is An Eminence,--Of These Our Hills"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16871"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16871,
        ""poem.id"": 16871,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Are Seven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""--------A Simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad. \"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?\" \"How many? Seven in all,\" she said And wondering looked at me. \"And where are they? I pray you tell.\" She answered, \"Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. \"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.\" \"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.\" Then did the little Maid reply, \"Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.\" \"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.\" \"Their graves are green, they may be seen,\" The little Maid replied, \"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. \"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. \"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. \"The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. \"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. \"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.\" \"How many are you, then,\" said I, \"If they two are in heaven?\" Quick was the little Maid's reply, \"O Master! we are seven.\" \"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!\" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, \"Nay, we are seven!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16872"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16872,
        ""poem.id"": 16872,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16873"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16873,
        ""poem.id"": 16873,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Farewell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,Thou rocky corner in the lowest stairOf that magnificent temple which doth boundOne side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,And there will safely ride when we are gone; The flowering shrubs that deck our humble doorWill prosper, though untended and alone:Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:These narrow bounds contain our private storeOf things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;Here are they in our sight--we have no more.Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!For two months now in vain we shall be sought:We leave you here in solitude to dwellWith these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,And placed together near our rocky Well.We go for One to whom ye will be dear;And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,Our own contrivance, Building without peer!--A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, Will come to you; to you herself will wed;And love the blessed life that we lead here.Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blownAmong the distant mountains, flower and weed,Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,Making all kindness registered and known;Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost showTo them who look not daily on thy face;Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,And say'st, when we forsake thee, 'Let them go!'Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild raceOf weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,And travel with the year at a soft pace.Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; Joy will be flown in its mortality;Something must stay to tell us of the rest.Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breastGlittered at evening like a starry sky;And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,Of which I sang one song that will not die.O happy Garden! whose seclusion deepHath been so friendly to industrious hours;And to soft slumbers, that did gently steepOur spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;Two burning months let summer overleap,And, coming back with Her who will be ours,Into thy bosom we again shall creep."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16874"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16874,
        ""poem.id"": 16874,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16875"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16875,
        ""poem.id"": 16875,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Heart Leaps Up"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16876"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16876,
        ""poem.id"": 16876,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Strange Fits Of Passion Have I Known"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16877"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16877,
        ""poem.id"": 16877,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Whirl-Blast From Behind The Hill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16878"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16878,
        ""poem.id"": 16878,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:05:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur.--Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:--feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-- In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.--I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 0 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16879"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16879,
        ""poem.id"": 16879,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Complaint"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16880"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16880,
        ""poem.id"": 16880,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Narrow Girdle Of Rough Stones And Crags"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy: And there myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. ----Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore-- Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now--a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. --And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern, So stately, of the queen Osmunda named; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. --So fared we that bright morning: from the fields Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a Man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake. 'Improvident and reckless,' we exclaimed, 'The Man must be, who thus can lose a day Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.' Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turned his head To greet us--and we saw a Mam worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained.-- Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The Man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. --Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by mariner was given to bay Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast; And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16881"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16881,
        ""poem.id"": 16881,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Solitary Reaper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16882"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16882,
        ""poem.id"": 16882,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Calm Is All Nature As A Resting Wheel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16883"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16883,
        ""poem.id"": 16883,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Night-Piece"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16884"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16884,
        ""poem.id"": 16884,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was An April Morning: Fresh And Clear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.--Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And, on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 'Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.' ----Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16885"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16885,
        ""poem.id"": 16885,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Night Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16886"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16886,
        ""poem.id"": 16886,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The World Is Too Much With Us; Late And Soon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16887"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16887,
        ""poem.id"": 16887,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She Dwelt Among The Untrodden Ways"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16888"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16888,
        ""poem.id"": 16888,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Character"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    },
    ""16889"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16889,
        ""poem.id"": 16889,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:06:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (Daffodils)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Wordsworth""
    }
}"
9,"2018-02-28 20:29:58","Rabindranath Tagore","{
    ""321"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 321,
        ""poem.id"": 321,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Dog"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/27/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Every morning this dog, very attached to me,Quietly keeps sitting near my seatTill touching its headI recognize its company.This recognition gives it so much joyPure delight ripples through its entire body.Among all dumb creaturesIt is the only living beingThat has seen the whole manBeyond what is good or bad in himIt has seenFor his love it can sacrifice its lifeIt can love him too for the sake of love aloneFor it is he who shows the wayTo the vast world pulsating with life.When I see its deep devotionThe offer of its whole beingI fail to understandBy its sheer instinctWhat truth it has discovered in man.By its silent anxious piteous looksIt cannot communicate what it understandsBut it has succeeded in conveying to meAmong the whole creationWhat is the true status of man."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""322"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 322,
        ""poem.id"": 322,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 81 - 90"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""323"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 323,
        ""poem.id"": 323,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Lxxix: I Often Wonder"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""324"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 324,
        ""poem.id"": 324,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 71 - 80"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""325"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 325,
        ""poem.id"": 325,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unyielding"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""326"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 326,
        ""poem.id"": 326,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 11- 20"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""327"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 327,
        ""poem.id"": 327,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 61 - 70"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""328"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 328,
        ""poem.id"": 328,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 21- 30"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""329"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 329,
        ""poem.id"": 329,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poems On Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""330"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 330,
        ""poem.id"": 330,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maran-Milan (Death-Wedding)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""331"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 331,
        ""poem.id"": 331,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 41 - 50"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""332"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 332,
        ""poem.id"": 332,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xlii: O Mad, Superbly Drunk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""333"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 333,
        ""poem.id"": 333,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:07:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When The Two Sisters Go To Fetch Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""334"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 334,
        ""poem.id"": 334,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 81 - 90"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""335"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 335,
        ""poem.id"": 335,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 91 - 99"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""336"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 336,
        ""poem.id"": 336,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xliv: Reverend Sir, Forgive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""337"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 337,
        ""poem.id"": 337,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Are To Play The Game Of Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""338"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 338,
        ""poem.id"": 338,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Cast My Net Into The Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""339"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 339,
        ""poem.id"": 339,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Merchant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""340"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 340,
        ""poem.id"": 340,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poems On Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""341"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 341,
        ""poem.id"": 341,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poems On Beauty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""342"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 342,
        ""poem.id"": 342,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xlv: To The Guests"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""343"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 343,
        ""poem.id"": 343,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Lxix: I Hunt For The Golden Stag"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""344"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 344,
        ""poem.id"": 344,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Afar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""345"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 345,
        ""poem.id"": 345,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:08:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Unheeded Pageant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""346"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 346,
        ""poem.id"": 346,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:09:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stray Birds 51 - 60"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""347"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 347,
        ""poem.id"": 347,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:09:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xxvi: What Comes From Your Willing Hands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""348"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 348,
        ""poem.id"": 348,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:09:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xxix: Speak To Me My Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""349"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 349,
        ""poem.id"": 349,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:09:17"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:09:35"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Lord Of My Life"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Recall"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Sleep-Stealer"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16944,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:08:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Palm Tree"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16946,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Lxx: Take Back Your Coins"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16949,
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        ""poem.id"": 16951,
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        ""poem.id"": 16952,
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        ""poem.id"": 16953,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:08:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xvi: Hands Cling To Eyes"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16954,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:08:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wicked Postman"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16955,
        ""poem.id"": 16955,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Xvi: She Dwelt Here By The Pool"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 16956,
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        ""poem.id"": 16957,
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        ""poem.id"": 16958,
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        ""poem.id"": 16959,
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        ""poem.id"": 16960,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:09:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Untimely Leave"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16961,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:09:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Judge"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Xliv: Where Is Heaven"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Lxviii: None Lives For Ever, Brother"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16966,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:09:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sailor"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16967,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:09:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Chanpa Flower"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16968,
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 16969,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:09:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Astronomer"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16970,
        ""poem.id"": 16970,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Moment's Indulgence"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16971,
        ""poem.id"": 16971,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Source"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16972,
        ""poem.id"": 16972,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun Of The First Day"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16973,
        ""poem.id"": 16973,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Signet Of Eternity"",
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        ""poem.id"": 16974,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Xlviii: I Travelled The Old Road"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16975,
        ""poem.id"": 16975,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Roaming Cloud"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16976,
        ""poem.id"": 16976,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Xlvii: The Road Is"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 16977,
        ""poem.id"": 16977,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:10:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Big Man"",
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        ""poem.id"": 17038,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Innermost One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17039"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17039,
        ""poem.id"": 17039,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Patience"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17040"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17040,
        ""poem.id"": 17040,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lotus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17041"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17041,
        ""poem.id"": 17041,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Lix: O Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17042"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17042,
        ""poem.id"": 17042,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lost Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17043"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17043,
        ""poem.id"": 17043,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ungrateful Sorrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17044"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17044,
        ""poem.id"": 17044,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Liv: In The Beginning Of Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17045"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17045,
        ""poem.id"": 17045,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lamp Of Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17046"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17046,
        ""poem.id"": 17046,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xxxiv: Do Not Go, My Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17047"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17047,
        ""poem.id"": 17047,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17048"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17048,
        ""poem.id"": 17048,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Last Curtain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17049"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17049,
        ""poem.id"": 17049,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Twelve O'Clock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17050"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17050,
        ""poem.id"": 17050,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:15:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Let Me Not Forget"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17054"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17054,
        ""poem.id"": 17054,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17055"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17055,
        ""poem.id"": 17055,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lover's Gifts Xxviii: I Dreamt"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17056"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17056,
        ""poem.id"": 17056,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Journey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17057"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17057,
        ""poem.id"": 17057,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17058"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17058,
        ""poem.id"": 17058,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Xxviii: Your Questioning Eyes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17059"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17059,
        ""poem.id"": 17059,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gift"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17060"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17060,
        ""poem.id"": 17060,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Banyan Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17062"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17062,
        ""poem.id"": 17062,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Shadow Chases Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17063"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17063,
        ""poem.id"": 17063,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maya"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17064"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17064,
        ""poem.id"": 17064,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:16:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lost Star"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17065"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17065,
        ""poem.id"": 17065,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Senses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17066"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17066,
        ""poem.id"": 17066,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Journey Home"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17067"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17067,
        ""poem.id"": 17067,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17068"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17068,
        ""poem.id"": 17068,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Broken Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Kasinath the new young singer fills the hall with sound:The seven notes dance in his throat like seven tame birds.His voice is a sharp sword slicing and thrusting everywhere,It darts like lightening - no knowing where it will go when.He sets deadly traps for himself, then cuts them away:The courtiers listen in amazement, give frequent gasps of praise.Only the old king Pratap Ray sits like wood, unmoved.Haraj Lal is the only singer he likes, all others leave him cold.From childhood he has spent so long listening to him sing -Rag Kafi during holi, cloud-songs during the rains,Songs for Durga at dawn in autumn, songs to bid her farewell -His heart swelled when he heard them and his eyes swam with tears.And on days when friends gathered and filled the hallThere were cowherds' songs of Krsna, in raags Bhupali and Multan.So many nights of wedding-festivity have passed in that royal house:Servants dressed in red, hundreds of lamps alight:The bridegroom sitting shyly in his finery and jewels,Young friends teasing him and whispering in his ear:Before him, singing raag Sahana, sits Baraj Lal.The king's heart is full of all those days and songs.When he hears some other singer, he feels no chord inside,No sudden magical awakening of memories of the past.When Pratap Ray watches Kasinath he just sees his wagging head:Tune after tune after tune, bu none with any echo in the heart.Kasinath asks for a rest and the singing stops for a space.Pratap Ray smilingly turns his eyes to Baraj Lal.He puts his mouth to his ear and says, 'Dear ustad,Give us a song as songs ought to be, this is no song at all.It's all tricks and games, like a cat hunting a bird.We used to hear songs in the old days, today they have no idea.'Old Baraj Lal, white-haired, white turban on his head,Bows to the assembled courtiers and slowly takes his seat.He takes the tanpura in his wasted, heavily veined handAnd with lowered head and closed eyes begins raag Yaman-kalyap.His quavering voice is swallowed by the enormous hall,Is like a tiny bird in a storm, unable to fly for all it tries.Pratap Ray, sitting to the left, encourages him again and again:'Superb, bravo!' he says in his ear, 'sing out loud.'The courtiers are inattentive, some whisper amongst themselves,Some of them yawn, some doze, some go off to their rooms;Some of them call to servants, 'Bring the bookah, bring some pan.'Some fan themselves furiously and complain of the heat.They cannot keep still for a minute, they shuffle or walk about -The hall was quiet before, but every sort of noise has grown.The old man's singing is swamped, like a frail boat in a typhoon:Only his shaky fingering of the tanpura shows it is there.Music that should rise on its own joy from the depths of the heartIs crushed by heedless clamour, like a fountain under a stone.The song and Baraj Lal's feelings go separate ways,But he sings for all he is worth, to keep up the honour of his king.One of the verses of the song has somehow slipped from his mind.He quickly goes back, tries to get it right this time.Again he forgets, it is lost, he shakes his head at the shame;He starts the song at the beginning - again he has to stop.His hand trembles doubly as he prays to his teachers name.His voice quakes with distress, like a lamp guttering in a breeze.He abandons the words of the song and tries to salvage the tune,But suddenly his wide-mouthed singing breaks into loud cries.The intricate melody goes to the winds, the rhythm is swept away -Tears snap the thread of the song, cascade like pearls.In shame he rests his head on the old tanpura in his lap -He has failed to remember a song: he weeps as he did as a child.With brimming eyes king Pratap Ray tenderly touches his friend:'Come, let us go from here,' he says with kindness and love.They leave that festive hall with its hundreds of blinding lights.The two old friends go outside, holding each other's hands.Baraj says with hands clasped, 'Master, our days are gone.New men have come now, new styles and customs in the world.The court we kept is deserted - only the two of us are left.Don't ask anyone to listen to me now, I beg you at your feet, my lord.The singer along does not make a song, there has to be someone who hears:One man opens his throat to sing, the other sings in his mind.Only when waves fall on the shore do they make a harmonious sound;Only when breezes shake the woods do we hear a rustling in the leaves.Only from a marriage of two forces does music arise in the world.Where there is no love, where listeners are dumb, there never can be song.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17069"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17069,
        ""poem.id"": 17069,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stream Of Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17070"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17070,
        ""poem.id"": 17070,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unending Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17071"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17071,
        ""poem.id"": 17071,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leave This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17072"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17072,
        ""poem.id"": 17072,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brahmā, VişņU, ŚIva"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17073"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17073,
        ""poem.id"": 17073,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Freedom"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17074"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17074,
        ""poem.id"": 17074,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fool"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17075"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17075,
        ""poem.id"": 17075,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Little Flute"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17076"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17076,
        ""poem.id"": 17076,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:17:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17077"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17077,
        ""poem.id"": 17077,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fireflies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""My fancies are fireflies, — Specks of living lighttwinkling in the dark.The voice of wayside pansies,that do not attract the careless glance,murmurs in these desultory lines.In the drowsy dark caves of the minddreams build their nest with fragmentsdropped from day's caravan.Spring scatters the petals of flowersthat are not for the fruits of the future,but for the moment's whim.Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumberrushes into numberless leaves,and dances in the air for a day.My words that are slightmay lightly dance upon time's waveswhen my works heavy with import have gone down.Mind's underground mothsgrow filmy wingsand take a farewell flightin the sunset sky.The butterfly counts not months but moments,and has time enough.My thoughts, like spark, ride on winged surprises,carrying a single laughter.The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadowwhich yet it never can grasp.Let my love, like sunlight, surround youand yet give you illumined freedom.Days are coloured bubblesthat float upon the surface of fathomless night.My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance,and therefore you may remember them.Leave out my name from the giftif it be a burden,but keep my song.April, like a child,writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers,wipes them away and forgets.Memory, the priestess,kills the presentand offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.From the solemn gloom of the templechildren run out to sit in the dust,God watches them playand forgets the priest.My mind starts up at some flashon the flow of its thoughtslike a brook at a sudden liquid note of its ownthat is never repeated.In the mountain, stillness surges upto explore its own height; in the lake, movement stands stillto contemplate its own depth.The departing night's one kisson the closed eyes of morningglows in the star of dawn.Maiden, thy beauty is like a fruitwhich is yet to mature,tense with an unyielding secret.Sorrow that has lost its memoryis like the dumb dark hoursthat have no bird songsbut only the cricket's chirp.Bigotry tries to keep truth safe in its handwith a grip that kills it.Wishing to hearten a timid lampgreat night lights all her stars.Though he holds in his arms the earth-bride,the sky is ever immensely away.God seeks comrades and claims love,the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.The soil in return for her servicekeeps the tree tied to her,the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.Jewel-like immortaldoes not boast of its length of yearsbut of the scintillating point of its moment.The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time,unobscured by the dust of history.Alight laughter in the steps of creationcarries it swiftly across time.One who was distant came near to me in the morning,and still nearer when taken away by night.White and pink oleanders meetand make merry in different dialects.When peace is active sweeping its dirt, it is storm.The lake lies low by the hill,a tearful entreaty of loveat the foot of the inflexible.There smiles the Divine Childamong his playthings of unmeaning cloudsand ephemeral lights and shadows.The breeze whispers to the lotus,'What is thy secret? ''It is myself,' says the lotus,'Steal it and I disappear! 'The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stemjoin hands in the dance of swaying branches.The jasmine's lisping of love to the sun is her flowers.The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedomand yet to keep it for himself.Gods, tired of their paradise, envy man.Clouds are hills in vapour,hills are clouds in stone, —a phantasy in time's dream.While God waits for His temple to be built of love,men bring stones.I touch God in my songas the hill touches the far-away seawith its waterfall.Light finds her treasure of coloursthrough the antagonism of clouds.My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tearslike a wet tree glistening in the sun after the rain is over.I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitful,but have failed to remember the grassthat has ever kept it green.The one without second is emptiness,the other one makes it true.Life's errors cry for the merciful beautythat can modulate their isolationinto a harmony with the whole.They expect thanks for the banished nestbecause their cage is shapely and secure.In love I pay my endless debt to theefor what thou art.The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,and the sun says, they are good.Your calumny against the great is impious,it hurts yourself; against the small it is mean,for it hurts the victim.The first flower that blossomed on this earthwas an invitation to the unborn song.Dawn—the many-coloured flower—fades,and then the simple light-fruit,the sun appears.The muscle that has a doubt if its wisdomthrottles the voice that would cry.The wind tries to take the flame by storm only to blow it out.Life's play is swift,Life's playthings fall behind one by oneand are forgotten.My flower, seek not thy paradisein a fool's buttonhole.Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon,but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.Darkness is the veiled bridesilently waiting for the errant lightto return to her bosom.Trees are the earth's endless effort tospeak to the listening heaven.The burden of self is lightenedwhen I laugh at myself.The weak can be terrible because they try furiously to appear strong.The wind of heaven blows,The anchor desperately clutches the mud,and my boat is beating its breast against the chain.The spirit of death is one,the spirit of life is many,When God is dead religion becomes one.The blue of the sky longs for the earth's green,the wind between them sighs, 'Alas.'Day's pain muffled by its own glare,burns among stars in the night.The stars crowd round the virgin nightin silent awe at her lonelinessthat can never be touched.The cloud gives all its goldto the departing sunand greets the rising moonwith only a pale smile.He who does good comes to the temple gate,he who loves reaches the shrine.Flower, have pity for the worm,it is not a bee,its love is a blunder and a burden.With the ruins of terror's triumphchildren build their doll's house.The lamp waits through the long day of neglectfor the flame's kiss in the night.Feathers in the dust lying lazily contenthave forgotten their sky.The flowers which is singleneed not envy the thornsthat are numerous.The world suffers most from the disinterested tyrannyof its well-wisher.We gain freedom when we have paid the full pricefor our right to live.Your careless gifts of a moment,like the meteors of an autumn night,catch fire in the depth of my being.The faith waiting in the heart of a seedpromises a miracle of lifewhich it cannot prove at once.Spring hesitates at winter's door,but the mango blossom rashly runs out to himbefore her time and meets her doom.The world is the ever-changing foamthat floats on the surface of a sea of silence.The two separated shores mingle their voicesin a song of unfathomed tears.As a river in the sea,work finds its fulfilmentin the depth of leisure.I lingered on my way till thy cherry tree lost its blossom,but the azalea brings to me, my love, thy forgiveness.Thy shy little pomegranate bud,blushing to-day behind her veil,will burst into a passionate flowerto-morrow when I am away.The clumsiness of power spoils the key,and uses the pickaxe.Birth is from the mystery of nightinto the greater mystery of day.These paper boats of mine are meant to danceon the ripples of hours,and not to reach any destination.Migratory songs wing from my heartand seek their nests in your voice of love.The sea of danger, doubt and denialaround man's little island of certaintychallenges him to dare the unknown.Love punishes when it forgives,and injured beauty by its awful silence.You live alone and unrecompensedbecause they are afraid of your great worth.The same sun is newly born in new landsin a ring of endless dawns.God is world is ever renewed by death,a Titan's ever crushed by its own existence.The glow-worm while exploring the dustnever knows that stars are in the sky.The tree is of to-day, the flower is old,it brings with it the messageof the immemorial seed.Each rose that comes brings me greetingsfrom the Rose of an eternal spring.God honours me when I work,He loves me when I sing.My love of to-day finds no homein the nest deserted by yesterday's love.The fire of pain traces for my soula luminous path across her sorrow.The grass survives the hillthrough its resurrections from countless deaths.Thou hast vanished from my reachleaving an impalpable touch in the blue of the sky,an invisible image in the wind movingamong the shadows.In pity for the desolate branchspring leaves to it a kiss that fluttered in a lonely leaf.The shy shadow in the gardenloves the sun in silence,Flowers guess the secret, and smile,while the leaves whisper.I leave no trace of wings in the air,but I am glad I have had my flight.The fireflies, twinkling among leaves,make the stars wonder.The mountain remains unmovedat its seeming defeat by the mist.While the rose said to the sun,'I shall ever remember thee,'her petals fell to the dust.Hills are the earth's gesture of despairfor the unreachable.Though the thorn in thy flower pricked me,O Beauty,I am grateful.The world knows that the feware more than the many.Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend,know that it pays itself.Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness,and is content to vanish when the sun comes out.Beauty is truth's smilewhen she beholds her own facein a perfect mirror.The dew-drop knows the sunonly within its own tiny orb.Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken lives of all ages,swarming in the air, hum round my heartand seek my voice.The desert is imprisoned in the wallof its unbounded barrenness.In the thrill of little leavesI see the air's invisible dance,and in their glimmeringthe secret heart-beats of the sky.You are like a flowering tree,amazed when I praise you for your gifts.The earth's sacrificial fireflames up in her trees,scattering sparks in flowers.Forests, the clouds of earth,hold up to the sky their silence,and clouds from above come downin resonant showers.The world speaks to me in pictures,my soul answers in music.The sky tells its beads all nighton the countless starsin memory of the sun.The darkness of night, like pain, is dumb,the darkness of dawn, like peace, is silent.Pride engraves his frowns in stones,love offers her surrender in flowers.The obsequious brush curtails truthin deference to the canvas which is narrow.The hill in its longing for the far-away skywishes to be like the cloudwith its endless urge of seeking.To justify their own spilling of inkthey spell the day as night.Profit smiles on goodnesswhen the good is profitable.In its swelling pridethe bubble doubts the truth of the sea,and laughs and bursts into emptiness.Love is an endless mystery,for it has nothing else to explain it.My clouds, sorrowing in the dark,forget that they themselveshave hidden the sun.Man discovers his own wealthwhen God comes to ask gifts of him.You leave your memory as a flameto my lonely lamp of separation.I came to offer thee a flower,but thou must have all my garden,—It is thine.The picture—a memory of lighttreasured by the shadow.It is easy to make faces at the sun,He is exposed by his own light in alldirections.History slowly smothers its truth,but hastily struggles to revive itin the terrible penance of pain.My work is rewarded in daily wages,I wait for my final value in love.Beauty knows to say, 'Enough,'barbarism clamours for still more.God loves to see in me, not his servant,but himself who serves all.The darkness of night is in harmony with day,the morning of mist is discordant.In the bounteous time of roses love is wine,—it is food in the famished hourwhen their petals are shed.An unknown flower in a strange landspeaks to the poet:'Are we not of the same soil, my lover? 'I am able to love my Godbecause He gives me freedom to deny Him.My untuned strings beg for musicin their anguished cry of shame.The worm thinks it strange and foolishthat man does not eat his books.The clouded sky to-day bears the visiorof the shadow of a divine sadnesson the forehead of brooding eternity.The shade of my tree is for passers-by,its fruit for the one for whom I wait.Flushed with the glow of sunsetearth seems like a ripe fruitready to be harvested by night.Light accepts darkness for his spousefor the sake of creation.The reed waits for his master's breath,the Master goes seeking for his reed.To the blind pen the hand that writes is unreal,its writing unmeaning.The sea smites his own barren breastbecause he has no flowers to offer to the moon.The greed for fruit misses the flower.God in His temple of starswaits for man to bring him his lamp.The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers.Released from bonds, the shameless flamedies in barren ashes.The sky sets no snare to capture the moon,it is her own freedom which binds her.The light that fills the skyseeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass.Wealth is the burden of bigness,Welfare the fulness of being.The razor-blade is proud of its keennesswhen it sneers at the sun.The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus,not the bee busily storing honey.Child, thou bringest to my heartthe babble of the wind and the water,the flower's speechless secrets, the clouds' dreams,the mute gaze of wonder of the morning sky.The rainbow among the clouds may be greatbut the little butterfly among the bushes is greater.The mist weaves her net round the morning,captivates him, and makes him blind.The Morning Star whispers to Dawn,'Tell me that you are only for me.''Yes,' she answers,'And also only for that nameless flower.'The sky remains infinitely vacantfor earth there to build its heaven with dreams.Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubtat being told that it is a fragmentawaiting perfection.Let the evening forgive the mistakes of the dayand thus win peace for herself.Beauty smiles in the confinement of the bud,in the heart of a sweet incompleteness.Your flitting love lightly brushed with its wingsmy sun-flowerand never asked if it was ready to surrender its honey.Leaves are silencesaround flowers which are their words.The tree bears its thousand yearsas one large majestic moment.My offerings are not for the temple at the end of the road,but for the wayside shrinesthat surprise me at every bend.Hour smile, my love, like the smell of a strange flower,is simple and inexplicable.Death laughs when the merit of the dead is exaggeratedfor it swells his store with more than he can claim.The sigh of the shore follows in vainthe breeze that hastens the ship across the sea.Truth loves its limits,for there it meets the beautiful.Between the shores of Me and Theethere is the loud ocean, my own surging self,which I long to cross.The right to possess boasts foolishlyof its right to enjoy.The rose is a great deal morethan a blushing apology for the thorn.Day offers to the silence of starshis golden lute to be tunedfor the endless life.The wise know how to teach,the fool how to smite.The centre is still and silent in the heartof an eternal dance of circles.The judge thinks that he is just when he comparesThe oil of another's lampwith the light of his own.The captive flower in the King's wreathsmiles bitterly when the meadow-flower envies her.Its store of snow is the hill's own burden,its outpouring of streams is borne by all the world.Listen to the prayer of the forestfor its freedom in flowers.Let your love see meeven through the barrier of nearness.The spirit of work in creation is thereto carry and help the spirit of play.To carry the burden of the instrument,count the cost of its material,and never to know that it is for music,is the tragedy of deaf life.Faith is the bird that feels the lightand sings when the dawn is still dark.I bring to thee, night, my day's empty cup,to be cleansed with thy cool darknessfor a new morning's festival.The mountain fir, in its rustling,modulates the memory of its fights with the storminto a hymn of peace.God honoured me with his fightwhen I was rebellious,He ignored me when I was languid.The sectarian thinksthat he has the sealadled into his private pond.In the shady depth of lifeare the lonely nests of memoriesthat shrink from words.Let my love find its strengthin the service of day,its peace in the union of night.Life sends up in blades of grassits silent hymn of praiseto the unnamed Light.The stars of night are to methe memorials of my day's faded flowers.Open thy door to that which must go,for the loss becomes unseemly when obstructed.True end is not in the reaching of the limit,but in a completion which is limitless.The shore whispers to the sea:'Write to me what thy waves struggle to say.'The sea writes in foam again and againand wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair.Let the touch of thy finger thrill my life's stringsand make the music thine and mine.The inner world rounded in my life like a fruit,matured in joy and sorrow,will drop into the darkness of the original soilfor some further course of creation.Form is in Matter, rhythm in Force,meaning in the Person.There are seekers of wisdom and seekers of wealth,I seek thy company so that I may sing.As the tree its leaves, I shed my words on the earth,let my thoughts unuttered flower in thy silence.My faith in truth, my vision of the perfect,help thee, Master, in thy creation.All the delights that I have feltin life's fruits and flowerslet me offer to thee at the end of the feast,in a perfect union of love.Some have thought deeply and explored themeaning of thy truth,and they are great; I have listened to catch the music of thy play,and I am glad.The tree is a winged spiritreleased from the bondage of seed,pursuing its adventure of lifeacross the unknown.The lotus offers its beauty to the heaven,the grass its service to the earth.The sun's kiss mellows into abandonmentthe miserliness of the green fruit clinging to its stem.The flame met the earthen lamp in me,and what a great marvel of light! Mistakes live in the neighbourhood of truthand therefore delude us.The cloud laughed at the rainbowsaying that it was an upstartgaudy in its emptiness.The rainbow calmly answered,'I am as inevitably real as the sun himself.'Let me not grope in vain in the darkbut keep my mind still in the faiththat the day will breakand truth will appearin its simplicity.Through the silent nightI hear the returning vagrant hopes of the morningknock at my heart.My new love comesbringing to me the eternal wealth of the old.The earth gazes at the moon and wondersthat she should have all her music in her smile.Day with its glare of curiosityputs the stars to flight.My mind has its true union with thee, O sky,at the window which is mine own,and not in the openwhere thou hast thy sole kingdom.Man claims God's flowers as his ownwhen he weaves them in a garland.The buried city, laid bare to the sun of a new age,is ashamed that is has lost all its song.Like my heart's pain that has long missed its meaning,the sun's rays robed in darkhide themselves under the ground.Like my heart's pain at love's sudden touch,they change their veil at the spring's calland come out in the carnival of colours,in flowers and leaves.My life's empty flutewaits for its final musiclike the primal darknessbefore the stars came out.Emancipation from the bondage of the soilis no freedom for the tree.The tapestry of life's story is wovenwith the threads of life's tiesever joining and breaking.Those thoughts of mine that are never captured by wordsperch upon my song and dance.My soul to-night loses itselfin the silent heart of a treestanding alone among the whispers of immensity.Pearl shells cast up by the seaon death's barren beach,—a magnificent wastefulness of creative life.The sunlight opens for me the word's gate,love's light its treasure.My life like the reed with its stops,has its play of coloursthrough the gaps in its hopes and gains.Let not my thanks to theerob my silence of its fuller homage.Life's aspirations comein the guise of children.The faded flower sighsthat the spring has vanished forever.In my life's gardenmy wealth has been of the shadows and lightsthat are never gathered and stored.The fruit that I Have gained foreveris that which thou hast accepted.The jasmine knows the sun to be her brotherin the heaven.Light is young, the ancient light; shadows are of the moment, they are born old.I feel that the ferry of my songs at the day's endwill bring me across to the other shorefrom where I shall see.The butterfly flitting from flower to flowerever remains mine,I lose the one that is netted by me.Your voice, free bird, reaches my sleeping nest,and my drowsy wings dreamof a voyage to the lightabove the clouds.I miss the meaning of my own partin the play of lifebecause I know not of the partsthat others play.The flower sheds all its petalsand finds the fruit.I leave my songs behind me to the bloom of the ever-returning honeysucklesand the joy of the wind from the south.Dead leaves when they lose themselves in soiltake part in the life of the forest.The mind ever seeks its wordsfrom its sounds and silenceas the sky from its darkness and light.The unseen dark plays on his fluteand the rhythm of lighteddies into stars and suns,into thoughts and dreams.My songs are to singthat I have loved Thy singing.When the voice of the Silent touches my wordsI know him and therefore I know myself.My last salutations are to themwho knew me imperfect and loved me.Love's gift cannot be given,it waits to be accepted.When death comes and whispers to me,'Thy days are ended,'let me say to him, 'I have lived in loveand not in mere time.'He will ask, 'Will thy songs remain? 'I shall say, 'I know not, but this I knowthat often when I sang I found my eternity.''Let me light my lamp,'say the star,'and never debateif it will help to remove the darkness.'Before the end of my journeymay I reach within myselfthe one which is the all,leaving the outer shellto float away with the drifting multitudeupon the current of chance and change."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17078"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17078,
        ""poem.id"": 17078,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Day Is Done"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17079"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17079,
        ""poem.id"": 17079,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Flower-School"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17080"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17080,
        ""poem.id"": 17080,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vocation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17081"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17081,
        ""poem.id"": 17081,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dungeon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17082"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17082,
        ""poem.id"": 17082,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gitanjali"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17083"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17083,
        ""poem.id"": 17083,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""At The Last Watch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Pity, in place of love,That pettiest of gifts,Is but a sugar-coating over neglect.Any passerby can make a gift of itTo a street beggar,Only to forget the moment the first corner is turned.I had not hoped for anything more that day.You left during the last watch of night.I had hoped you would say goodbye,Just say 'Adieu' before going away,What you had said another day,What I shall never hear again.In their place, just that one word,Bound by the thin fabric of a little compassionWould even that have been too much for you to bear?When I first awoke from sleepMy heart fluttered with fearLest the time had been over.I rushed out of bed.The distant church clock chimed half past twelveI sat waiting near the door of my roomResting my head against it,Facing the porch through which you would come out.Even that tiniest of chancesWas snatched away by fate from hapless me;I fell asleepShortly before you left.Perhaps you cast a sidelong glanceAt my reclining bodyLike a broken boat left high and dry.Perhaps you walked away with careLest you wake me up.Awaking with a start I knew at onceThat my vigil had been wastedI realised, what was to go went away in a moment,What was to stay behind stayed onFor all time.Silence everywhereLike that of a birds' nest bereft of birdsOn the bough of a songless tree.With the lifeless light of the waning moon was now blendedThe pallor of dawnSpreading itself over the greyness of my empty life.I walked towards your bedroomFor no reason.Outside the doorBurnt a smoky lantern covered with soot,The porch smelt of the smouldering wick.Over the abandoned bed the flaps of the rolled-up mosquito-netFluttered a little in the breeze.Seen in the sky outside through the windowWas the morning star,Witness of all sleepless peopleBereft of hope.Suddenly I found you had left behind by mistakeYour gold-mounted ivory walking stick.If there were time, I thought,You might come back from the station to look for it,But not becauseYou had not seen me before going away."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17084"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17084,
        ""poem.id"": 17084,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fairyland"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17085"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17085,
        ""poem.id"": 17085,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Is This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17086"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17086,
        ""poem.id"": 17086,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Distant Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17087"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17087,
        ""poem.id"": 17087,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17088"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17088,
        ""poem.id"": 17088,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Benediction"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17089"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17089,
        ""poem.id"": 17089,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:18:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Give Me Strength"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17092"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17092,
        ""poem.id"": 17092,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brink Of Eternity"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17093"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17093,
        ""poem.id"": 17093,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Farewell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17094"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17094,
        ""poem.id"": 17094,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Baby's Way"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17095"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17095,
        ""poem.id"": 17095,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beggarly Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17096"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17096,
        ""poem.id"": 17096,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Colored Toys"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17097"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17097,
        ""poem.id"": 17097,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Chain Of Pearls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17098"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17098,
        ""poem.id"": 17098,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Flower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17099"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17099,
        ""poem.id"": 17099,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Face To Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17100"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17100,
        ""poem.id"": 17100,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Closed Path"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17101"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17101,
        ""poem.id"": 17101,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endless Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17102"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17102,
        ""poem.id"": 17102,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Baby's World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17103"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17103,
        ""poem.id"": 17103,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Moments Indulgence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17104"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17104,
        ""poem.id"": 17104,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:19:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Clouds And Waves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    },
    ""17105"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17105,
        ""poem.id"": 17105,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where The Mind Is Without Fear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rabindranath Tagore""
    }
}"
10,"2018-02-28 20:31:07","Shel Silverstein","{
    ""361"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 361,
        ""poem.id"": 361,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rotten Convention"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""They had a Rotten ConventionAnd everyone was there:Hamburger Face and Gruesome GraceAnd the Skull with the slimy hair.There was Mr. Mud and the Creepin' CrudAnd the Drooler and Belchin' Bob,There was Three-Headed Ann- - she was holdin' handsWith the Whimperin' Simperin Slob.The Unpronounceable Name, he came,And so did Saw-Nose DanAnd Poopin' Pete and Smelly FeetAnd the Half-Invisible Man.There was Sudden Death and Sweat-Sock Breath,Big Barf and the Deadly Bore,And Killin' Dillon and other villainsWe'd never seen before.And we all sat around and told bad talesOf the rottenest people we knew,And everybody there kept askin' …Where were you?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""362"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 362,
        ""poem.id"": 362,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wastebasket Brother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Someone put their baby brotherUnder this basket- -The question is exactly why,But I'm not going to ask it.But someone, I ain't sayin' who,Has got a guilty face,Ashamed for lettin' such a lovely brotherGo to waste."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""363"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 363,
        ""poem.id"": 363,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Won't You?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Barbara's eyes are blue as azure,But she is in love with Freddy.Karen's sweet, but Harry has her.Gentle Jane is going steady.Carol hates me. So does May.Abigail will not be mine.Nancy lives too far away...Won't you be my Valentine?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""364"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 364,
        ""poem.id"": 364,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mr. Grumpledump's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Everything's wrong,Days are too long,Sunshine's too hot,Wind is too strong.Clouds are too fluffy,Grass is too green,Ground is too dusty,Sheets are too clean.Stars are too twinkly,Moon is too high,Water's too drippy,Sand is too dry.Rocks are too heavy,Feathers too light,Kids are too noisy,Shoes are too tight.Folks are too happy,Singin' their songs.Why can't they see it?Everything's wrong!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""365"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 365,
        ""poem.id"": 365,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Backward Bill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""366"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 366,
        ""poem.id"": 366,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hungry Mungry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/14/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Hungry Mungry sat at supper,Took his knife and spoon and fork,Ate a bowl of mushroom soup, ate a slice of roasted pork,Ate a dozen stewed tomatoes, twenty-seven deviled eggs,Fifteen shrimps, nine bakes potatoes,Thirty-two fried chicken legs,A shank of lamb, a boiled ham,Two bowls of grits, some black-eye peas,Four chocolate shakes, eight angel cakes,Nine custard pies with Muenster cheese,Ten pots of tea, and after he,Had eaten all that he was able,He poured some broth on the tableclothAnd ate the kitchen table.His parents said, 'Oh Hungry Mungry, stop these silly jokes.'Mungry opened up his mouth, and 'Gulp,' he ate his folks.And then he went and ate his house, all the bricks and wood,And then he ate up all the people in the neighborhood.Up came twenty angry policeman shouting, 'Stop and cease.'Mungry opened his mouth and 'Gulp,' he ate the police.Soldiers came with tanks and guns.Said Mungry, 'They can't harm me.'He just smiled and licked his lips and ate the U.S. Army.The President sent all his bombers- Mungry still was calm,Put his head back, gulped the planes, and gobbled up the bomb.He ate his town and ate the city- ate and ate and- And then he said, 'I think I'll eat the whole United States.'And so he ate Chicago first and munched the Water Tower,And then he chewed on Pittsburgh but he found it rather sour.He ate New York and Tennessee, and all of Boston town,Then drank the Mississippi River just to wash it down.And when he'd eaten every state, each puppy, boy and girlHe wiped his mouth upon his sleeve and went to eat the world.He ate the Egypt pyramids and every church in Rome,And all the grass in Africa and all in ice in Nome.He ate each hill in green Brazil and then to make things worseHe decided for dessert he'd eat the universe.He started with the moon and stars and soon as he was doneHe gulped the clouds, he sipped the wind and gobbled up the sun.Then sitting there in the cold dark air,He started to nibble his feet,Then his legs, then his hipsThen his neck, then his lipsTill he sat there just gnashin' his teeth'Cause nothin' was nothin' wasNothin' was nothin' wasNothin' was left to eat."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""367"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 367,
        ""poem.id"": 367,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Homework Machine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Homework Machine,Oh, the Homework Machine,Most perfectcontraption that's ever been seen.Just put in your homework, then drop in a dime,Snap on the switch, and in ten seconds' time,Your homework comes out, quick and clean as can be.Here it is— 'nine plus four?' and the answer is 'three.'Three?Oh me . . .I guess it's not as perfectAs I thought it would be."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""368"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 368,
        ""poem.id"": 368,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Don'T Change On My Account"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""\"If you're sloppy, that's just fine.If you're moody, I won't mind.If you're fat, that's fine with me.If you're skinny, let it be.If you're bossy, that's alright.If you're nasty, I won't fight.If you're rough, well that's just you.If you're mean, that's alright too.Whatever you are is all okay.I don't like you anyway.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""369"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 369,
        ""poem.id"": 369,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thumbsucker"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""370"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 370,
        ""poem.id"": 370,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Quaaludes Again"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""371"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 371,
        ""poem.id"": 371,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Runny’s Heading Rabits"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""372"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 372,
        ""poem.id"": 372,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crouchin’ On The Outside"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""373"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 373,
        ""poem.id"": 373,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:10:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Son Of A Scoundrel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""374"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 374,
        ""poem.id"": 374,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Handy Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""375"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 375,
        ""poem.id"": 375,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scum Of The Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""376"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 376,
        ""poem.id"": 376,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kick It Again"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""377"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 377,
        ""poem.id"": 377,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sure Hit Songwriter’s Pen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""378"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 378,
        ""poem.id"": 378,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peace Proposal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""379"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 379,
        ""poem.id"": 379,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wavy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""380"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 380,
        ""poem.id"": 380,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Toucan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""381"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 381,
        ""poem.id"": 381,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Makin' It Natural"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""382"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 382,
        ""poem.id"": 382,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dirty Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Where did you get such a dirty face,My darling dirty-faced child? I got it from crawling along in the dirtAnd biting two buttons off Jeremy's shirt.I got it from chewing the roots of a roseAnd digging for clams in the yard with my nose.I got it from peeking into a dark caveAnd painting myself like a Navajo brave.I got it from playing with coal in the binAnd signing my name in cement with my chin.I got if from rolling around on the rugAnd giving the horrible dog a big hug.I got it from finding a lost silver mineAnd eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tearsAnd from having more fun than you've had in years."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""383"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 383,
        ""poem.id"": 383,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Danny O'Dare"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""384"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 384,
        ""poem.id"": 384,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bigtime"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""385"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 385,
        ""poem.id"": 385,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Worlds Greatest Smoke Off"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""386"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 386,
        ""poem.id"": 386,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kiss It Away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""387"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 387,
        ""poem.id"": 387,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:11:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Floobie Doobie Doo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""388"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 388,
        ""poem.id"": 388,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lydia Pinkham"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""389"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 389,
        ""poem.id"": 389,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Man Who Got No Sign"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""390"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 390,
        ""poem.id"": 390,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Great Conch Train Robbery"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""391"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 391,
        ""poem.id"": 391,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Freakin’ At The Freaker’s Ball"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""392"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 392,
        ""poem.id"": 392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Folk Singer's Blues"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""393"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 393,
        ""poem.id"": 393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For What She Had Done"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""394"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 394,
        ""poem.id"": 394,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bear, The Fire, And The Snow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""395"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 395,
        ""poem.id"": 395,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""396"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 396,
        ""poem.id"": 396,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sylvia's Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""397"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 397,
        ""poem.id"": 397,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bubblin' Up"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""398"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 398,
        ""poem.id"": 398,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Someday’s Here"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""399"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 399,
        ""poem.id"": 399,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Marie Laveau"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""400"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 400,
        ""poem.id"": 400,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vegematic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17146"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17146,
        ""poem.id"": 17146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Polly In A Porny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17147"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17147,
        ""poem.id"": 17147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bridge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17148"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17148,
        ""poem.id"": 17148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Come After Jinny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17149"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17149,
        ""poem.id"": 17149,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ve Been Working So Hard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17150"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17150,
        ""poem.id"": 17150,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Point Of View"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17151"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17151,
        ""poem.id"": 17151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If I Had A Brontosaurus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17152"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17152,
        ""poem.id"": 17152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Boa Constrictor Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17153"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17153,
        ""poem.id"": 17153,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yowzah"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17154"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17154,
        ""poem.id"": 17154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Morgan’s Curse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17155"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17155,
        ""poem.id"": 17155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Turkey?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17156"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17156,
        ""poem.id"": 17156,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17157"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17157,
        ""poem.id"": 17157,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Liberated Lady 1999"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17158"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17158,
        ""poem.id"": 17158,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Modern Talk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17159"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17159,
        ""poem.id"": 17159,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:20:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pathetic Way Of Getting Over Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17160"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17160,
        ""poem.id"": 17160,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:21:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Way To The Bottom"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17161"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17161,
        ""poem.id"": 17161,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:21:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hoodoo Voodoo Lady"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17162"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17162,
        ""poem.id"": 17162,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:21:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Show It At The Beach"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17163"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17163,
        ""poem.id"": 17163,
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    },
    ""17288"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17288,
        ""poem.id"": 17288,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Too"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17289"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17289,
        ""poem.id"": 17289,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eight Balloons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17290"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17290,
        ""poem.id"": 17290,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Daddy What If?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17291"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17291,
        ""poem.id"": 17291,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Captain Hook"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17292"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17292,
        ""poem.id"": 17292,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lazy Jane"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17293"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17293,
        ""poem.id"": 17293,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Forgotten Language"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17294"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17294,
        ""poem.id"": 17294,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Many, How Much"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17295"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17295,
        ""poem.id"": 17295,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whatif"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17296"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17296,
        ""poem.id"": 17296,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Difference"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17297"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17297,
        ""poem.id"": 17297,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hector The Collector"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17298"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17298,
        ""poem.id"": 17298,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Listen To The Mustn'Ts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17299"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17299,
        ""poem.id"": 17299,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Unicorn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17300"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17300,
        ""poem.id"": 17300,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:31:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Somebody Has To"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17301"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17301,
        ""poem.id"": 17301,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Boy And The Old Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17302"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17302,
        ""poem.id"": 17302,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Voice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17303"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17303,
        ""poem.id"": 17303,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17304"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17304,
        ""poem.id"": 17304,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sick"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17305"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17305,
        ""poem.id"": 17305,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Messy Room"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17306"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17306,
        ""poem.id"": 17306,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Inch Tall"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17307"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17307,
        ""poem.id"": 17307,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jimmy Jet And His Tv Set"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17308"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17308,
        ""poem.id"": 17308,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sarah Cynthia Slyvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17309"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17309,
        ""poem.id"": 17309,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Judy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17310"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17310,
        ""poem.id"": 17310,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Sale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17311"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17311,
        ""poem.id"": 17311,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If The World Was Crazy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17312"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17312,
        ""poem.id"": 17312,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peanut-Butter Sandwich"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17313"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17313,
        ""poem.id"": 17313,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:32:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Colors"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17314"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17314,
        ""poem.id"": 17314,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All The Time In The World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17315"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17315,
        ""poem.id"": 17315,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""100,000 Pennies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17316"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17316,
        ""poem.id"": 17316,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Batty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17317"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17317,
        ""poem.id"": 17317,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bear In There"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17318"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17318,
        ""poem.id"": 17318,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Enter This Deserted House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17319"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17319,
        ""poem.id"": 17319,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ations"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17320"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17320,
        ""poem.id"": 17320,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Snowball"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17321"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17321,
        ""poem.id"": 17321,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Boa Constrictor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17322"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17322,
        ""poem.id"": 17322,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""25 Minutes To Go"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17323"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17323,
        ""poem.id"": 17323,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Smart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17324"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17324,
        ""poem.id"": 17324,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crowded Tub"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17325"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17325,
        ""poem.id"": 17325,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Light In The Attic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17326"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17326,
        ""poem.id"": 17326,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Boy Named Sue"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/6/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Well, my daddy left home when I was three,and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,but the meanest thing that he ever did wasbefore he left he went and named me Sue.Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,it seems I had to fight my whole life through.Some gal would giggle and I'd get redand some guy would laugh and I'd bust his head,I tell you, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue.Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.My fist got hard and my wits got keen.Roamed from town to town to hide my shame,but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,I'd search the honky tonks and bars and killthat man that gave me that awful name.But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I hadjust hit town and my throat was dry.I'd thought i'd stop and have myself a brew.At an old saloon in a street of mudand at a table dealing stud sat the dirty,mangy dog that named me Sue.Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dadfrom a worn-out picture that my mother hadand I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.He was big and bent and gray and oldand I looked at him and my blood ran cold,and I said, 'My name is Sue. How do you do?Now you're gonna die.' Yeah, that's what I told him.Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went downbut to my surprise he came up with a knifeand cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chairright across his teeth. And we crashed throughthe wall and into the street kicking and a-gougingin the mud and the blood and the beer.I tell you I've fought tougher men but I really can't remember when.He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.I heard him laughin' and then I heard him cussin',he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.And he said, 'Son, this world is rough and ifa man's gonna make it, he's gotta be toughand I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.So I gave you that name and I said 'Goodbye'.I knew you'd have to get tough or die. And it'sthat name that helped to make you strong.'Yeah, he said, 'Now you have just fought onehelluva fight, and I know you hate me and you'vegot the right to kill me now and I wouldn't blame youif you do. But you ought to thank mebefore I die for the gravel in your guts and the spitin your eye because I'm the guy that named you Sue.'Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,called him pa and he called me a son,and I came away with a different point of viewand I think about him now and then.Every time I tried, every time I win and if Iever have a son I think I am gonna name himBill or George - anything but Sue."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17327"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17327,
        ""poem.id"": 17327,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Giving Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Once there was a tree....and she loved a little boy.And everyday the boy would comeand he would gather her leavesand make them into crownsand play king of the forest.He would climb up her trunkand swing from her branchesand eat apples.And they would play hide-and-go-seek.And when he was tired,he would sleep in her shade.And the boy loved the tree....very much.And the tree was happy.But time went by.And the boy grew older.And the tree was often alone.Then one day the boy came to the treeand the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come andclimb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in myshade and be happy.''I am too big to climb and play' saidthe boy.'I want to buy things and have fun.I want some money?''I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but Ihave no money.I have only leaves and apples.Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city. Then you will have money andyou will be happy.'And so the boy climbed up thetree and gathered her applesand carried them away.And the tree was happy.But the boy stayed away for a long time....and the tree was sad.And then one day the boy came backand the tree shook with joyand she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunkand swing from my branches and be happy.''I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.'I want a wife and I want children,and so I need a house.Can you give me a house ?' ' I have no house,' said the tree.'The forest is my house,but you may cut off my branches and build a house. Then you will be happy.'And so the boy cut off her branchesand carried them awayto build his house.And the tree was happy.But the boy stayed away for a long time.And when he came back,the tree was so happyshe could hardly speak.'Come, Boy,' she whispered,'come and play.''I am too old and sad to play,'said the boy.'I want a boat that will take me far away from here.Can you give me a boat?''Cut down my trunkand make a boat,' said the tree.'Then you can sail away...and be happy.'And so the boy cut down her trunkand made a boat and sailed away.And the tree was happy... but not really.And after a long timethe boy came back again.'I am sorry, Boy,'said the tree,' but I have nothingleft to give you -My apples are gone.''My teeth are too weakfor apples,' said the boy.'My branches are gone,'said the tree. ' Youcannot swing on them - ''I am too old to swingon branches,' said the boy.'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.'You cannot climb - ''I am too tired to climb' said the boy.'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.'I wish that I could give you something....but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump.I am sorry....''I don't need very much now,' said the boy.'just a quiet place to sit and rest.I am very tired.''Well,' said the tree, straighteningherself up as much as she could,'well, an old stump is good for sitting and restingCome, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'And the boy did. And the tree was happy."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17328"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17328,
        ""poem.id"": 17328,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:33:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where The Sidewalk Ends"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/7/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    },
    ""17329"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17329,
        ""poem.id"": 17329,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hug O'War"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Shel Silverstein""
    }
}"
11,"2018-02-28 20:32:02","William Blake","{
    ""401"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 401,
        ""poem.id"": 401,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:12:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A QUESTION ANSWERED"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/24/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""What is it men in women do require?The lineaments of Gratified Desire.What is it women do in men require?The lineaments of Gratified Desire."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""402"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 402,
        ""poem.id"": 402,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rhine Was Red."",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/17/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The Rhine was red with humane blood,The Danube roll'd a purple tide,On the Euphrates Satan stood And over Asia stretch'd his pride.He wither'd up sweet Zion's HillFrom every Nation of the Earth;He wither'd up Jerusalem's GatesAnd in a dark Land gave her birth.He wither'd up the Human FormBy laws of sacrifice for sin,Till it became a Mortal Worm,But O! translucent all within.Spectre of Albion! warlike Fiend!In clouds of blood and ruin roll'd,I here reclaim thee as my own,My Selfhood! Satan! arm'd in gold.Is this thy soft Family-Love,Thy cruel Patriarchal pride,Planting the Family alone,Destroying all the World beside?A man's worst enemies are thoseOf his own house and family;And he who makes his law a curse,By his own law shall surely die.In my Exchanges every Land,Shall walk, and mine in every Land,Mutual shall build Jerusalem,Both heart in heart and hand in hand."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""403"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 403,
        ""poem.id"": 403,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fairy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/2/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""‘COME hither, my Sparrows, My little arrows. If a tear or a smile Will a man beguile, If an amorous delay Clouds a sunshiny day, If the step of a foot Smites the heart to its root, 'Tis the marriage-ring… Makes each fairy a king.' So a Fairy sung. From the leaves I sprung; He leap'd from the spray To flee away; But in my hat caught, He soon shall be taught. Let him laugh, let him cry, He's my Butterfly; For I've pull'd out the sting Of the marriage-ring."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""404"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 404,
        ""poem.id"": 404,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Invocation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""405"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 405,
        ""poem.id"": 405,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Iv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""406"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 406,
        ""poem.id"": 406,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Chimney-Sweeper: When My Mother Died I Was Very Young"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""407"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 407,
        ""poem.id"": 407,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter V"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""408"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 408,
        ""poem.id"": 408,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Vi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""409"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 409,
        ""poem.id"": 409,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Vii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""410"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 410,
        ""poem.id"": 410,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Viii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""411"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 411,
        ""poem.id"": 411,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Ix"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""412"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 412,
        ""poem.id"": 412,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""413"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 413,
        ""poem.id"": 413,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:13:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Preludium"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""414"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 414,
        ""poem.id"": 414,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen (Excerpts)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""415"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 415,
        ""poem.id"": 415,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sky Is An Immortal Tent Built By The Sons Of Los"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""416"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 416,
        ""poem.id"": 416,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Preludium To Europe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""417"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 417,
        ""poem.id"": 417,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Klopstock England Defied"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""418"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 418,
        ""poem.id"": 418,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jerusalem: I See The Four-Fold Man, The Humanity In Deadly Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""419"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 419,
        ""poem.id"": 419,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""420"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 420,
        ""poem.id"": 420,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Milton: But In The Wine-Presses The Human Grapes Sing Not Nor Dance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""421"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 421,
        ""poem.id"": 421,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If It Is True What The Prophets Write"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""422"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 422,
        ""poem.id"": 422,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Urizen: Chapter Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""423"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 423,
        ""poem.id"": 423,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Four Zoas (Excerpt)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""424"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 424,
        ""poem.id"": 424,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Thomas Butts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""425"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 425,
        ""poem.id"": 425,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Caverns Of The Grave I'Ve Seen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""426"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 426,
        ""poem.id"": 426,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Accuser Who Is The God Of This World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""427"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 427,
        ""poem.id"": 427,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:14:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Several Questions Answered"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""428"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 428,
        ""poem.id"": 428,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The New Jerusalem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""429"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 429,
        ""poem.id"": 429,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I See The Four-Fold Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""430"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 430,
        ""poem.id"": 430,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Crystal Cabinet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""431"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 431,
        ""poem.id"": 431,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Tirzah"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""432"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 432,
        ""poem.id"": 432,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Vagabond"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""433"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 433,
        ""poem.id"": 433,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""434"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 434,
        ""poem.id"": 434,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Samson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""435"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 435,
        ""poem.id"": 435,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Saw A Chapel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""436"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 436,
        ""poem.id"": 436,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shepherd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""437"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 437,
        ""poem.id"": 437,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Grey Monk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""438"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 438,
        ""poem.id"": 438,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Heard An Angel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""439"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 439,
        ""poem.id"": 439,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Book Of Thel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""440"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 440,
        ""poem.id"": 440,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Sweet I Roam'D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17370"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17370,
        ""poem.id"": 17370,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Reeds Of Innocence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17371"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17371,
        ""poem.id"": 17371,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Why Should I Care For The Men Of Thames"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17372"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17372,
        ""poem.id"": 17372,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Question Answered"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17373"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17373,
        ""poem.id"": 17373,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Silent, Silent Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17374"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17374,
        ""poem.id"": 17374,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Everlasting Gospel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17375"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17375,
        ""poem.id"": 17375,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Milton: And Did Those Feet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17376"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17376,
        ""poem.id"": 17376,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The French Revolution (Excerpt)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17377"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17377,
        ""poem.id"": 17377,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hear The Voice Of The Bard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17378"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17378,
        ""poem.id"": 17378,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of Los"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17379"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17379,
        ""poem.id"": 17379,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song: Memory, Hither Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17380"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17380,
        ""poem.id"": 17380,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jerusalem: England! Awake! Awake! Awake!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17381"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17381,
        ""poem.id"": 17381,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gwin King Of Norway"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17382"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17382,
        ""poem.id"": 17382,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fair Elanor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17383"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17383,
        ""poem.id"": 17383,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:34:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Smile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There is a Smile of Love And there is a Smile of Deceit And there is a Smile of SmilesIn which these two Smiles meet And there is a Frown of Hate And there is a Frown of disdain And there is a Frown of FrownsWhich you strive to forget in vain For it sticks in the Hearts deep Core And it sticks in the deep Back bone And no Smile that ever was smild But only one Smile aloneThat betwixt the Cradle & GraveIt only once Smild can be But when it once is Smild Theres an end to all Misery"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17384"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17384,
        ""poem.id"": 17384,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Muses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17385"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17385,
        ""poem.id"": 17385,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17386"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17386,
        ""poem.id"": 17386,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""England! Awake! Awake! Awake!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17387"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17387,
        ""poem.id"": 17387,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now Art Has Lost Its Mental Charms"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17388"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17388,
        ""poem.id"": 17388,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Girl Found"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17389"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17389,
        ""poem.id"": 17389,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Songs Of Experience: Introduction"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17390"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17390,
        ""poem.id"": 17390,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sleep! Sleep! Beauty Bright"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17391"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17391,
        ""poem.id"": 17391,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lily"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17392"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17392,
        ""poem.id"": 17392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Introduction To The Songs Of Innocence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17393"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17393,
        ""poem.id"": 17393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Holy Thursday (Innocence)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17394"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17394,
        ""poem.id"": 17394,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hear The Voice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17395"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17395,
        ""poem.id"": 17395,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Girl Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17396"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17396,
        ""poem.id"": 17396,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Milton: And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17397"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17397,
        ""poem.id"": 17397,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Boy Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17398"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17398,
        ""poem.id"": 17398,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Autumn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17399"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17399,
        ""poem.id"": 17399,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:35:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Angel That Presided O'Er My Birth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17400"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17400,
        ""poem.id"": 17400,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Rose Up At The Dawn Of Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17401"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17401,
        ""poem.id"": 17401,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""But In The Wine-Presses The Human Grapes Sing Not Nor Dance"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17402"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17402,
        ""poem.id"": 17402,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17403"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17403,
        ""poem.id"": 17403,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Holy Thursday (Experience)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17404"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17404,
        ""poem.id"": 17404,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Clod And The Pebble"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17405"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17405,
        ""poem.id"": 17405,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17406"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17406,
        ""poem.id"": 17406,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Nobodaddy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17407"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17407,
        ""poem.id"": 17407,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thing Among The Snow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17408"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17408,
        ""poem.id"": 17408,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Why Was Cupid A Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17409"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17409,
        ""poem.id"": 17409,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Imitation Of Spenser"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wideScatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,In lucent words my darkling verses dight,And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,All while the jocund hours in thy trainScatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.For brutish Pan in vain might thee assayWith tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurseAnd love of Folly needs none other's curse)Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,For which himself might deem him ne'er the worseTo sit in council with his modern peers,And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.And thou, Mercurius, that with wingèd browDost mount aloft into the yielding sky,And thro' Heav'n's halls thy airy flight dost throw,Entering with holy feet to where on highJove weighs the counsel of futurity;Then, laden with eternal fate, dost goDown, like a falling star, from autumn sky,And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:If thou arrivest at the sandy shoreWhere nought but envious hissing adders dwell,Thy golden rod, thrown on t 1000 he dusty floor,Can charm to harmony with potent spell.Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispelEnvy and Hate that thirst for human gore;And cause in sweet society to dwellVile savage minds that lurk in lonely cellO Mercury, assist my lab'ring senseThat round the circle of the world would fly,As the wing'd eagle scorns the tow'ry fenceOf Alpine hills round his high aëry,And searches thro' the corners of the sky,Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,And see the wingèd lightnings as they fly;Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, aroundPlumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.And thou, O warrior maid invincible,Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,In solemn gloom of branches interwove?Or bear'st thy AEgis o'er the burning field,Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheldThe weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17410"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17410,
        ""poem.id"": 17410,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To See"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17411"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17411,
        ""poem.id"": 17411,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Echoing Green"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17412"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17412,
        ""poem.id"": 17412,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:36:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Songs Of Innocence: Introduction"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17413"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17413,
        ""poem.id"": 17413,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Summer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17414"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17414,
        ""poem.id"": 17414,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17415"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17415,
        ""poem.id"": 17415,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""America, A Prophecy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17416"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17416,
        ""poem.id"": 17416,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Voice Of The Ancient Bard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17417"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17417,
        ""poem.id"": 17417,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Proverbs Of Hell (Excerpt From The Marriage Of Heaven And H"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17418"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17418,
        ""poem.id"": 17418,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17419"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17419,
        ""poem.id"": 17419,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Schoolboy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17420"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17420,
        ""poem.id"": 17420,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17421"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17421,
        ""poem.id"": 17421,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Land Of Dreams"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17422"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17422,
        ""poem.id"": 17422,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Spectre Around Me Night And Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17423"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17423,
        ""poem.id"": 17423,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Two Songs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17424"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17424,
        ""poem.id"": 17424,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cradle Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17425"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17425,
        ""poem.id"": 17425,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Another's Sorrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17426"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17426,
        ""poem.id"": 17426,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17427"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17427,
        ""poem.id"": 17427,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:37:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nurse's Song (Innocence)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17428"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17428,
        ""poem.id"": 17428,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Birds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17429"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17429,
        ""poem.id"": 17429,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Evening Star"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17430"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17430,
        ""poem.id"": 17430,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Infant Joy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17431"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17431,
        ""poem.id"": 17431,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wild Flower's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17432"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17432,
        ""poem.id"": 17432,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Divine Image"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17433"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17433,
        ""poem.id"": 17433,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Earth's Answer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17434"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17434,
        ""poem.id"": 17434,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Human Abstract"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17435"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17435,
        ""poem.id"": 17435,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mad Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17436"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17436,
        ""poem.id"": 17436,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Winter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17437"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17437,
        ""poem.id"": 17437,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Laughing Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17438"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17438,
        ""poem.id"": 17438,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Don'T Believe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17439"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17439,
        ""poem.id"": 17439,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Never Seek To Tell Thy Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17440"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17440,
        ""poem.id"": 17440,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Boy Found"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17441"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17441,
        ""poem.id"": 17441,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:38:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Little Black Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17442"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17442,
        ""poem.id"": 17442,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Infant Sorrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17443"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17443,
        ""poem.id"": 17443,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jerusalem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17444"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17444,
        ""poem.id"": 17444,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love And Harmony"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17445"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17445,
        ""poem.id"": 17445,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Pretty Rose Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17446"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17446,
        ""poem.id"": 17446,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lamb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17447"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17447,
        ""poem.id"": 17447,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Blossom"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17448"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17448,
        ""poem.id"": 17448,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sick Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17449"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17449,
        ""poem.id"": 17449,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17450"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17450,
        ""poem.id"": 17450,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Things To Remember"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17451"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17451,
        ""poem.id"": 17451,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Broken Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": ""MY Spectre around me night and day Like a wild beast guards my way; My Emanation far within Weeps incessantly for my sin. ‘A fathomless and boundless deep, There we wander, there we weep; On the hungry craving wind My Spectre follows thee behind. ‘He scents thy footsteps in the snow Wheresoever thou dost go, Thro’ the wintry hail and rain. When wilt thou return again? ’Dost thou not in pride and scorn Fill with tempests all my morn, And with jealousies and fears Fill my pleasant nights with tears? ‘Seven of my sweet loves thy knife Has bereavèd of their life. Their marble tombs I built with tears, And with cold and shuddering fears. ‘Seven more loves weep night and day Round the tombs where my loves lay, And seven more loves attend each night Around my couch with torches bright. ‘And seven more loves in my bed Crown with wine my mournful head, Pitying and forgiving all Thy transgressions great and small. ‘When wilt thou return and view My loves, and them to life renew? When wilt thou return and live? When wilt thou pity as I forgive?’ ‘O’er my sins thou sit and moan: Hast thou no sins of thy own? O’er my sins thou sit and weep, And lull thy own sins fast asleep. ‘What transgressions I commit Are for thy transgressions fit. They thy harlots, thou their slave; And my bed becomes their grave. ‘Never, never, I return: Still for victory I burn. Living, thee alone I’ll have; And when dead I’ll be thy grave. ‘Thro’ the Heaven and Earth and Hell Thou shalt never, quell: I will fly and thou pursue: Night and morn the flight renew.’ ‘Poor, pale, pitiable form That I follow in a storm; Iron tears and groans of lead Bind around my aching head. ‘Till I turn from Female love And root up the Infernal Grove, I shall never worthy be To step into Eternity. ‘And, to end thy cruel mocks, Annihilate thee on the rocks, And another form create To be subservient to my fate. ‘Let us agree to give up love, And root up the Infernal Grove; Then shall we return and see The worlds of happy Eternity. ‘And throughout all Eternity I forgive you, you forgive me. As our dear Redeemer said: “This the Wine, and this the Bread.”’"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17452"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17452,
        ""poem.id"": 17452,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eternity"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17453"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17453,
        ""poem.id"": 17453,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Garden Of Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17454"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17454,
        ""poem.id"": 17454,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ah Sunflower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17455"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17455,
        ""poem.id"": 17455,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:39:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17456"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17456,
        ""poem.id"": 17456,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A War Song To Englishmen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17457"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17457,
        ""poem.id"": 17457,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17458"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17458,
        ""poem.id"": 17458,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little Girl Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17459"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17459,
        ""poem.id"": 17459,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Little Boy Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17460"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17460,
        ""poem.id"": 17460,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17461"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17461,
        ""poem.id"": 17461,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""London"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17462"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17462,
        ""poem.id"": 17462,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Cradle Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17463"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17463,
        ""poem.id"": 17463,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love's Secret"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17464"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17464,
        ""poem.id"": 17464,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Angel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17465"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17465,
        ""poem.id"": 17465,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Divine Image"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17466"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17466,
        ""poem.id"": 17466,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Auguries Of Innocence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""To see a World in a Grain of SandAnd a Heaven in a Wild Flower,Hold Infinity in the palm of your handAnd Eternity in an hour. A Robin Red breast in a CagePuts all Heaven in a Rage.A dove house fill'd with doves & PigeonsShudders Hell thro' all its regions.A dog starv'd at his Master's GatePredicts the ruin of the State.A Horse misus'd upon the RoadCalls to Heaven for Human blood.Each outcry of the hunted HareA fibre from the Brain does tear.A Skylark wounded in the wing,A Cherubim does cease to sing.The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fightDoes the Rising Sun affright.Every Wolf's & Lion's howlRaises from Hell a Human Soul.The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,Keeps the Human Soul from Care.The Lamb misus'd breeds public strifeAnd yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.The Bat that flits at close of EveHas left the Brain that won't believe.The Owl that calls upon the NightSpeaks the Unbeliever's fright.He who shall hurt the little WrenShall never be belov'd by Men.He who the Ox to wrath has mov'dShall never be by Woman lov'd.The wanton Boy that kills the FlyShall feel the Spider's enmity.He who torments the Chafer's spriteWeaves a Bower in endless Night.The Catterpillar on the LeafRepeats to thee thy Mother's grief.Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.He who shall train the Horse to WarShall never pass the Polar Bar.The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.The Gnat that sings his Summer's songPoison gets from Slander's tongue.The poison of the Snake & NewtIs the sweat of Envy's Foot.The poison of the Honey BeeIs the Artist's Jealousy.The Prince's Robes & Beggars' RagsAre Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.A truth that's told with bad intentBeats all the Lies you can invent.It is right it should be so;Man was made for Joy & Woe;And when this we rightly knowThro' the World we safely go.Joy & Woe are woven fine,A Clothing for the Soul divine;Under every grief & pineRuns a joy with silken twine.The Babe is more than swadling Bands;Throughout all these Human LandsTools were made, & born were hands,Every Farmer Understands.Every Tear from Every EyeBecomes a Babe in Eternity.This is caught by Females brightAnd return'd to its own delight.The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & RoarAre Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.The Babe that weeps the Rod beneathWrites Revenge in realms of death.The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,Does to Rags the Heavens tear.The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.The poor Man's Farthing is worth moreThan all the Gold on Afric's Shore.One Mite wrung from the Labrer's handsShall buy & sell the Miser's lands:Or, if protected from on high,Does that whole Nation sell & buy.He who mocks the Infant's FaithShall be mock'd in Age & Death.He who shall teach the Child to DoubtThe rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.He who respects the Infant's faithTriumph's over Hell & Death.The Child's Toys & the Old Man's ReasonsAre the Fruits of the Two seasons.The Questioner, who sits so sly,Shall never know how to Reply.He who replies to words of DoubtDoth put the Light of Knowledge out.The Strongest Poison ever knownCame from Caesar's Laurel Crown.Nought can deform the Human RaceLike the Armour's iron brace.When Gold & Gems adorn the PlowTo peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.A Riddle or the Cricket's CryIs to Doubt a fit Reply.The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's MileMake Lame Philosophy to smile.He who Doubts from what he seesWill ne'er believe, do what you Please.If the Sun & Moon should doubtThey'd immediately Go out.To be in a Passion you Good may do,But no Good if a Passion is in you.The Whore & Gambler, by the StateLicenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.The Harlot's cry from Street to StreetShall weave Old England's winding Sheet.The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,Dance before dead England's Hearse.Every Night & every MornSome to Misery are Born.Every Morn & every NightSome are Born to sweet Delight.Some ar Born to sweet Delight,Some are born to Endless Night.We are led to Believe a LieWhen we see not Thro' the EyeWhich was Born in a Night to Perish in a NightWhen the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.God Appears & God is LightTo those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,But does a Human Form DisplayTo those who Dwell in Realms of day."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17467"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17467,
        ""poem.id"": 17467,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tyger"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/10/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    },
    ""17468"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17468,
        ""poem.id"": 17468,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:40:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Poison Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/9/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Blake""
    }
}"
12,"2018-02-28 20:32:37","John Keats","{
    ""441"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 441,
        ""poem.id"": 441,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Otho The Great - Act Iv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""442"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 442,
        ""poem.id"": 442,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Otho The Great - Act V"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""443"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 443,
        ""poem.id"": 443,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:15:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Cat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/7/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Cat! who has pass'd thy grand climacteric,How many mice and rats hast in thy daysDestroy'd? How many tit-bits stolen? GazeWith those bright languid segments green, andprickThose velvet ears - but prythee do not stickThy latent talons in me - and tell me all thy frays,Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick;Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists, -For all the wheezy asthma - and for allThy tail's tip is nick'd off - and though the fistsOf many a maid have given thee many a maul,Still is thy fur as when the listsIn youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall."",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""444"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 444,
        ""poem.id"": 444,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Rhymed In A Letter From Oxford"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""445"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 445,
        ""poem.id"": 445,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiii. Addressed To Haydon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""446"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 446,
        ""poem.id"": 446,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Written Before Re-Read King Lear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""447"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 447,
        ""poem.id"": 447,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Written In Answer To A Sonnet By J. H. Reynolds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""448"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 448,
        ""poem.id"": 448,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Otho The Great - Act Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""449"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 449,
        ""poem.id"": 449,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode. Written On The Blank Page Before Beaumont And Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid Of The Inn'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""450"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 450,
        ""poem.id"": 450,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Hearing The Bag-Pipe And Seeing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""451"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 451,
        ""poem.id"": 451,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song. Written On A Blank Page In Beaumont And Fletcher's Works"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""452"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 452,
        ""poem.id"": 452,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""453"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 453,
        ""poem.id"": 453,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ix. Keen, Fitful Gusts Are"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""454"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 454,
        ""poem.id"": 454,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cap And Bells; Or, The Jealousies: A Faery Tale -- Unfinished"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""455"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 455,
        ""poem.id"": 455,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Translated From A Sonnet Of Ronsard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""456"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 456,
        ""poem.id"": 456,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiv. Addressed To The Same (Haydon)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""457"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 457,
        ""poem.id"": 457,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:16:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spenserian Stanzas On Charles Armitage Brown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""458"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 458,
        ""poem.id"": 458,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet On Sitting Down To Read King Lear Once Again"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""459"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 459,
        ""poem.id"": 459,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiv. Addressed To The Same (Haydon)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""460"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 460,
        ""poem.id"": 460,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Charles Cowden Clarke"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""461"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 461,
        ""poem.id"": 461,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Devon Maid: Stanzas Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""462"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 462,
        ""poem.id"": 462,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xiii. Addressed To Haydon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""463"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 463,
        ""poem.id"": 463,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Otho The Great - Act Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""464"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 464,
        ""poem.id"": 464,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spenserian Stanza. Written At The Close Of Canto Ii, Book V, Of"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""465"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 465,
        ""poem.id"": 465,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To Spenser"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""466"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 466,
        ""poem.id"": 466,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""467"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 467,
        ""poem.id"": 467,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. On A Picture Of Leander"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""468"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 468,
        ""poem.id"": 468,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written In The Highlands After A Visit To Burns's Country"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""469"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 469,
        ""poem.id"": 469,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""470"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 470,
        ""poem.id"": 470,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: After Dark Vapors Have Oppress'D Our Plains"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""471"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 471,
        ""poem.id"": 471,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:17:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Receiving A Laurel Crown From Leigh Hunt"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""472"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 472,
        ""poem.id"": 472,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""King Stephen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""473"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 473,
        ""poem.id"": 473,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To Homer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""474"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 474,
        ""poem.id"": 474,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Iv. How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""475"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 475,
        ""poem.id"": 475,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stanzas. In A Drear-Nighted December"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""476"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 476,
        ""poem.id"": 476,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Viii. To My Brothers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""477"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 477,
        ""poem.id"": 477,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment Of"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""478"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 478,
        ""poem.id"": 478,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment Of An Ode To Maia. Written On May Day 1818"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""479"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 479,
        ""poem.id"": 479,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Daisy's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/4/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I The sun, with his great eye, Sees not so much as I; And the moon, all silver-proud, Might as well be in a cloud. II And O the spring- the spring I lead the life of a king! Couch'd in the teeming grass, I spy each pretty lass. III I look where no one dares, And I stare where no one stares, And when the night is nigh, Lambs bleat my lullaby"",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""480"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 480,
        ""poem.id"": 480,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Or Three"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17486"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17486,
        ""poem.id"": 17486,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To John Hamilton Reynolds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17488"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17488,
        ""poem.id"": 17488,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To George Felton Mathew"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17489"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17489,
        ""poem.id"": 17489,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. A Dream, After Reading Dante's Episode Of Paulo And Francesca"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17490"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17490,
        ""poem.id"": 17490,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On Seeing A Lock Of Milton's Hair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17491"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17491,
        ""poem.id"": 17491,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Written Upon The Top Of Ben Nevis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17493"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17493,
        ""poem.id"": 17493,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Specimen Of An Induction To A Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17494"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17494,
        ""poem.id"": 17494,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What The Thrush Said. Lines From A Letter To John Hamilton Reynolds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17497"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17497,
        ""poem.id"": 17497,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xvi. To Kosciusko"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17499"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17499,
        ""poem.id"": 17499,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Written On A Blank Space At The End Of Chaucer's Tale Of 'The Floure And The Lefe'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17504"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17504,
        ""poem.id"": 17504,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. On Leigh Hunt's Poem 'The Story Of Rimini'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17506"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17506,
        ""poem.id"": 17506,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xvii. Happy Is England"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17513"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17513,
        ""poem.id"": 17513,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stanzas To Miss Wylie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17517"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17517,
        ""poem.id"": 17517,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:41:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Sonnets. To Haydon, With A Sonnet Written On Seeing The Elgin Marbles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17519"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17519,
        ""poem.id"": 17519,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Iii. Written On The Day That Mr. Leigh Hunt Left Prison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17520"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17520,
        ""poem.id"": 17520,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To John Hamilton Reynolds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17522"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17522,
        ""poem.id"": 17522,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17523"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17523,
        ""poem.id"": 17523,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Staffa"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17524"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17524,
        ""poem.id"": 17524,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Imitation Of Spenser"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17526"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17526,
        ""poem.id"": 17526,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xii. On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17527"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17527,
        ""poem.id"": 17527,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Ii. To ******"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17528"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17528,
        ""poem.id"": 17528,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xi. On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17529"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17529,
        ""poem.id"": 17529,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment Of 'The Castle Builder.'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17530"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17530,
        ""poem.id"": 17530,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: Before He Went"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17531"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17531,
        ""poem.id"": 17531,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To The Nile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17533"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17533,
        ""poem.id"": 17533,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: As From The Darkening Gloom A Silver Dove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17534"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17534,
        ""poem.id"": 17534,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Vi. To G. A. W."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17535"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17535,
        ""poem.id"": 17535,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:42:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment. Where's The Poet?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17536"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17536,
        ""poem.id"": 17536,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gadfly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17537"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17537,
        ""poem.id"": 17537,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Written On A Blank Page In Shakespeare's Poems, Facing 'A Lover's Complaint'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17538"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17538,
        ""poem.id"": 17538,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17539"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17539,
        ""poem.id"": 17539,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Vii. To Solitude"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17540"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17540,
        ""poem.id"": 17540,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Isabella; Or, The Pot Of Basil: A Story From Boccaccio"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17541"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17541,
        ""poem.id"": 17541,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hyperion. Book Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17542"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17542,
        ""poem.id"": 17542,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To Byron"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17543"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17543,
        ""poem.id"": 17543,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Receiving A Curious Shell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17544"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17544,
        ""poem.id"": 17544,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet V. To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17545"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17545,
        ""poem.id"": 17545,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hyperion. Book Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17546"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17546,
        ""poem.id"": 17546,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To George Keats: Written In Sickness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17547"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17547,
        ""poem.id"": 17547,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Extracts From An Opera"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17548"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17548,
        ""poem.id"": 17548,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet I. To My Brother George"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17549"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17549,
        ""poem.id"": 17549,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To -------."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17550"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17550,
        ""poem.id"": 17550,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17551"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17551,
        ""poem.id"": 17551,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:43:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines To Fanny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17552"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17552,
        ""poem.id"": 17552,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To Chatterton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17553"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17553,
        ""poem.id"": 17553,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. Why Did I Laugh Tonight?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17554"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17554,
        ""poem.id"": 17554,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To ****"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17555"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17555,
        ""poem.id"": 17555,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet Xv. On The Grasshopper And Cricket"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17556"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17556,
        ""poem.id"": 17556,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. To A Lady Seen For A Few Moments At Vauxhall"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17557"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17557,
        ""poem.id"": 17557,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: Oh! How I Love, On A Fair Summer's Eve"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17558"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17558,
        ""poem.id"": 17558,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Sonnets On Fame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17559"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17559,
        ""poem.id"": 17559,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Ladies Who Saw Me Crowned"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17560"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17560,
        ""poem.id"": 17560,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Four Faries"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17561"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17561,
        ""poem.id"": 17561,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. The Day Is Gone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17562"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17562,
        ""poem.id"": 17562,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Teignmouth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17563"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17563,
        ""poem.id"": 17563,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Some Ladies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17564"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17564,
        ""poem.id"": 17564,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To Mrs. Reynolds's Cat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17565"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17565,
        ""poem.id"": 17565,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song. Hush, Hush! Tread Softly!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17566"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17566,
        ""poem.id"": 17566,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:44:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lamia. Part Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17567"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17567,
        ""poem.id"": 17567,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dedication To Leigh Hunt, Esq."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17568"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17568,
        ""poem.id"": 17568,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Character Of Charles Brown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17569"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17569,
        ""poem.id"": 17569,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Woman! When I Behold Thee Flippant, Vain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17570"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17570,
        ""poem.id"": 17570,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To John Hamilton Reynolds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17571"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17571,
        ""poem.id"": 17571,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hyperion. Book I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17572"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17572,
        ""poem.id"": 17572,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Haydon With A Sonnet Written On Seeing The Elgin Marbles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17573"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17573,
        ""poem.id"": 17573,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Apollo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17574"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17574,
        ""poem.id"": 17574,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To G.A.W."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17575"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17575,
        ""poem.id"": 17575,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. On Peace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17576"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17576,
        ""poem.id"": 17576,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Indian Maid, From 'Endymion'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17577"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17577,
        ""poem.id"": 17577,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On A Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17578"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17578,
        ""poem.id"": 17578,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment. Welcome Joy, And Welcome Sorrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17579"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17579,
        ""poem.id"": 17579,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:45:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17580"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17580,
        ""poem.id"": 17580,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sharing Eve's Apple"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17581"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17581,
        ""poem.id"": 17581,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written On A Blank Space At The End Of Chaucer's Tale Of The Flowre And The Lefe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17582"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17582,
        ""poem.id"": 17582,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17583"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17583,
        ""poem.id"": 17583,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Keen, Fitful Gusts Are Whisp'Ring Here And There"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17584"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17584,
        ""poem.id"": 17584,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Ailsa Rock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
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    ""17585"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17585,
        ""poem.id"": 17585,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet. On The Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17586"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17586,
        ""poem.id"": 17586,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17587"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17587,
        ""poem.id"": 17587,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To&Mdash;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17588"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17588,
        ""poem.id"": 17588,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sleep And Poetry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17589"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17589,
        ""poem.id"": 17589,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song. I Had A Dove"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17590"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17590,
        ""poem.id"": 17590,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:46:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Calidore: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17591"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17591,
        ""poem.id"": 17591,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17592"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17592,
        ""poem.id"": 17592,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17593"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17593,
        ""poem.id"": 17593,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines From Endymion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17594"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17594,
        ""poem.id"": 17594,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment: Modern Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17595"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17595,
        ""poem.id"": 17595,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On The Mermaid Tavern"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17596"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17596,
        ""poem.id"": 17596,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written On The Day That Mr Leigh Hunt Left Prison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17597"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17597,
        ""poem.id"": 17597,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lamia. Part I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17598"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17598,
        ""poem.id"": 17598,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Sitting Down To Read King Lear Once Again"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17599"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17599,
        ""poem.id"": 17599,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Homer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17600"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17600,
        ""poem.id"": 17600,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On Melancholy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17601"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17601,
        ""poem.id"": 17601,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Seeing The Elgin Marbles For The First Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17602"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17602,
        ""poem.id"": 17602,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17603"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17603,
        ""poem.id"": 17603,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:47:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Byron"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17604"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17604,
        ""poem.id"": 17604,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Meg Merrilies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17605"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17605,
        ""poem.id"": 17605,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written Before Re-Reading King Lear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17606"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17606,
        ""poem.id"": 17606,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To My Brother George"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17607"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17607,
        ""poem.id"": 17607,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written On A Blank Space"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17608"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17608,
        ""poem.id"": 17608,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stanzas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17609"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17609,
        ""poem.id"": 17609,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17610"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17610,
        ""poem.id"": 17610,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ben Nevis: A Dialogue"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17611"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17611,
        ""poem.id"": 17611,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Faery Songs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17612"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17612,
        ""poem.id"": 17612,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17613"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17613,
        ""poem.id"": 17613,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17614"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17614,
        ""poem.id"": 17614,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17615"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17615,
        ""poem.id"": 17615,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Mrs Reynolds' Cat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17616"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17616,
        ""poem.id"": 17616,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:48:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Robin Hood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17617"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17617,
        ""poem.id"": 17617,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endymion: Book Iv"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17618"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17618,
        ""poem.id"": 17618,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endymion: Book Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17619"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17619,
        ""poem.id"": 17619,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Grasshopper And Cricket"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17620"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17620,
        ""poem.id"": 17620,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Nile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17621"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17621,
        ""poem.id"": 17621,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Drear-Nighted December"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17622"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17622,
        ""poem.id"": 17622,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17623"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17623,
        ""poem.id"": 17623,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To My Brothers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17624"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17624,
        ""poem.id"": 17624,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Fanny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17625"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17625,
        ""poem.id"": 17625,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Isabella Or The Pot Of Basil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17626"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17626,
        ""poem.id"": 17626,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prophecy: To George Keats In America"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17627"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17627,
        ""poem.id"": 17627,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hyperion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17628"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17628,
        ""poem.id"": 17628,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Think Of It Not, Sweet One"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17629"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17629,
        ""poem.id"": 17629,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:49:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17630"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17630,
        ""poem.id"": 17630,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17631"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17631,
        ""poem.id"": 17631,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Apollo And The Graces"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17632"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17632,
        ""poem.id"": 17632,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On Indolence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17633"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17633,
        ""poem.id"": 17633,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dawlish Fair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17634"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17634,
        ""poem.id"": 17634,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17635"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17635,
        ""poem.id"": 17635,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You Say You Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17636"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17636,
        ""poem.id"": 17636,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To My Brother George"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17637"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17637,
        ""poem.id"": 17637,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Blush Not So!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17641"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17641,
        ""poem.id"": 17641,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Fame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17642"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17642,
        ""poem.id"": 17642,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where's The Poet?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17643"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17643,
        ""poem.id"": 17643,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hymn To Apollo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17644"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17644,
        ""poem.id"": 17644,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Human Seasons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17645"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17645,
        ""poem.id"": 17645,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:50:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17646"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17646,
        ""poem.id"": 17646,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Living Hand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17647"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17647,
        ""poem.id"": 17647,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment Of An Ode To Maia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17648"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17648,
        ""poem.id"": 17648,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endymion: Book Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17649"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17649,
        ""poem.id"": 17649,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Psyche"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17650"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17650,
        ""poem.id"": 17650,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Solitude"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17651"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17651,
        ""poem.id"": 17651,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Original Version )"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17652"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17652,
        ""poem.id"": 17652,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Eve Of St. Agnes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17653"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17653,
        ""poem.id"": 17653,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endymion: A Poetic Romance (Excerpt)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17654,
        ""poem.id"": 17654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Extempore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""When they were come into Faery's Court They rang -- no one at home -- all gone to sportAnd dance and kiss and love as faerys doFor Faries be as human lovers true -- Amid the woods they were so lone and wild Where even the Robin feels himself exil'dAnd where the very books as if affraidHurry along to some less magic shade.'No one at home'! the fretful princess cry'd'And all for nothing such a dre[a]ry rideAnd all for nothing my new diamond crossNo one to see my persian feathers tossNo one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my FoolOr how I pace my Otaheitan mule. Ape, Dwarf and Fool why stand you gaping thereBurst the door open, quick -- or I declareI'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.'The Dwarf began to tremble and the Ape Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agapeThe Princess grasp'd her switch but just in timeThe Dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.'O mighty Princess did you ne'er hear tellWhat your poor servants know but too too wellKnow you the three great crimes in faery landThe first alas! poor Dwarf I understandI made a whipstock of a faery's wandThe next is snoring in their company The next the last the direst of the threeIs making free when they are not at home.I was a Prince -- a baby prince -- my doomYou see, I made a whipstock of a wandMy top has henceforth slept in faery land.He was a Prince the Fool, a grown up PrinceBut he has never been a King's son sinceHe fell a snoring at a faery BallYour poor Ape was a Prince and he poor thingBut ape -- so pray your highness stay awhile'Tis sooth indeed we know it to our sorrow --Persist and you may be an ape tomorrow --While the Dwarf spake the Princess all for spitePeal'd the brown hazel twig to lilly whiteClench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apartTry'd to look unconcerned with beating heart.They saw her highness had made up her mindAnd quaver'd like the reeds before the windAnd they had had it, but O happy chanceThe Ape for very fear began to danceAnd grin'd as all his uglyness did ache--She staid her vixen fingers for his sakeHe was so very ugly: then she tookHer pocket mirror and began to lookFirst at herself and [then] at him and thenShe smil'd at her own beauteous face again.Yet for all this -- for all her pretty faceShe took it in her head to see the place.Women gain little from experienceEither in Lovers, husbands or expense.The more their beauty the more fortune tooBeauty before the wide world never knew.So each fair reasons -- tho' it oft miscarries.She thought her pretty face would please the fa[e]ries.'My darling Ape I wont whip you todayGive me the Picklock sirrah and go play.'They all three wept but counsel was as vainAs crying cup biddy to drops of rain.Yet lingeringly did the sad Ape forth drawThe Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.The Princess took it and dismounting straight Trip'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gateAnd touch'd the wards, the Door full courteouslyOpened -- she enter'd with her servants three.Again it clos'd and there was nothing seenBut the Mule grasing on the herbage green.End of Canto xii.Canto the xiii.The Mule no sooner saw himself aloneThan he prick'd up his Ears -- and said 'well done!At least unhappy Prince I may be free -- No more a Princess shall side saddle meO King of Othaiete -- tho' a Mule'Aye every inch a King' -- tho' 'Fortune's fool.'Well done -- for by what Mr. Dwarfy saidI would not give a sixpence for her head.'Even as he spake he trotted in high gleeTo the knotty side of an old Pollard treeAnd rub'd his sides against the mossed barkTill his Girths burst and left him naked starkExcept his Bridle -- how get rid of thatBuckled and tied with many a twist and plait.At last it struck him to pretend to sleepAnd then the thievish Monkies down would creepAnd filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.No sooner thought of than adown he laySham'd a good snore -- the Monkey-men descendedAnd whom they thought to injure they befriended.They hung his Bridle on a topmost boughAnd of[f] he went run, trot, or anyhow--"",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17655,
        ""poem.id"": 17655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fill For Me A Brimming Bowl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17656,
        ""poem.id"": 17656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Galloway Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17657,
        ""poem.id"": 17657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:51:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On Melancholy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17658,
        ""poem.id"": 17658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endymion: Book I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17659,
        ""poem.id"": 17659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Addressed To Haydon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17660,
        ""poem.id"": 17660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Asleep! O Sleep A Little While, White Pearl!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17661,
        ""poem.id"": 17661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17662,
        ""poem.id"": 17662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Be Ye Going, You Devon Maid?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17663,
        ""poem.id"": 17663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Fanny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17664"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17664,
        ""poem.id"": 17664,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Endymion (Excerpts)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17665,
        ""poem.id"": 17665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hither, Hither, Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17666,
        ""poem.id"": 17666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Answer To A Sonnet By J.H.Reynolds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17667,
        ""poem.id"": 17667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Hope"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17668"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17668,
        ""poem.id"": 17668,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bards Of Passion And Of Mirth,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17669,
        ""poem.id"": 17669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Draught Of Sunshine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17671,
        ""poem.id"": 17671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:52:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream, After Reading Dante's Episode Of Paolo And Francesca"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17672,
        ""poem.id"": 17672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Happy Is England! I Could Be Content"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17673,
        ""poem.id"": 17673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Party Of Lovers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17674,
        ""poem.id"": 17674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""La Belle Dame Sans Merci"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17675,
        ""poem.id"": 17675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written On A Summer Evening"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17676,
        ""poem.id"": 17676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fancy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overaw'd, Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her! She has vassals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth: She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment, hark! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plum'd lillies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering, While the autumn breezes sing. Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string And such joys as these she'll bring.-- Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home."",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17677,
        ""poem.id"": 17677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Give Me Women, Wine, And Snuff"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17678,
        ""poem.id"": 17678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song About Myself"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/22/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I.There was a naughty boy,A naughty boy was he,He would not stop at home,He could not quiet be-He tookIn his knapsackA bookFull of vowelsAnd a shirtWith some towels,A slight capFor night cap,A hair brush,Comb ditto,New stockingsFor old onesWould split O!This knapsackTight at's backHe rivetted closeAnd followed his noseTo the north,To the north,And follow'd his noseTo the north.II.There was a naughty boyAnd a naughty boy was he,For nothing would he doBut scribble poetry-He tookAn ink standIn his handAnd a penBig as tenIn the other,And awayIn a potherHe ranTo the mountainsAnd fountainsAnd ghostesAnd postesAnd witchesAnd ditchesAnd wroteIn his coatWhen the weatherWas cool,Fear of gout,And withoutWhen the weatherWas warm-Och the charmWhen we chooseTo follow one's noseTo the north,To the north,To follow one's noseTo the north!III.There was a naughty boyAnd a naughty boy was he,He kept little fishesIn washing tubs threeIn spiteOf the mightOf the maidNor afraidOf his Granny-good-He often wouldHurly burlyGet up earlyAnd goBy hook or crookTo the brookAnd bring homeMiller's thumb,TittlebatNot over fat,Minnows smallAs the stallOf a glove,Not aboveThe sizeOf a niceLittle baby'sLittle fingers-O he made'Twas his tradeOf fish a pretty kettleA kettle-A kettleOf fish a pretty kettleA kettle!IV.There was a naughty boy,And a naughty boy was he,He ran away to ScotlandThe people for to see-There he foundThat the groundWas as hard,That a yardWas as long,That a songWas as merry,That a cherryWas as red,That leadWas as weighty,That fourscoreWas as eighty,That a doorWas as woodenAs in England-So he stood in his shoesAnd he wonder'd,He wonder'd,He stood in hisShoes and he wonder'd."",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17679"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17679,
        ""poem.id"": 17679,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To Autumn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17680"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17680,
        ""poem.id"": 17680,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His Last Sonnet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17681"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17681,
        ""poem.id"": 17681,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On A Grecian Urn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, \"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17682"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17682,
        ""poem.id"": 17682,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode To A Nightingale"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,--- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death,Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--- To thy high requiem become a sodThou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17683,
        ""poem.id"": 17683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Have Fears"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17684,
        ""poem.id"": 17684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:53:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bright Star"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    },
    ""17685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17685,
        ""poem.id"": 17685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""John Keats""
    }
}"
13,"2018-02-28 20:33:39","Walt Whitman","{
    ""481"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 481,
        ""poem.id"": 481,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, IV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Trippers and askers surround me,People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;These come to me days and nights and go from me again,But they are not the Me myself.Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""482"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 482,
        ""poem.id"": 482,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, V"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,And you must not be abased to the other.Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,And that a kelson of the creation is love,And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""483"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 483,
        ""poem.id"": 483,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, VI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,Growing among black folks as among white,Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.Tenderly will I use you curling grass,It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,And here you are the mothers' laps.This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,Darker than the colorless beards of old men,Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.What do you think has become of the young and old men?And what do you think has become of the women and chil- dren?They are alive and well somewhere,The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""484"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 484,
        ""poem.id"": 484,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, VII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,For me those that have been boys and that love women,For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,For me children and the begetters of children.Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""485"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 485,
        ""poem.id"": 485,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, VIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The little one sleeps in its cradle,I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,I peeringly view them from the top.The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders,The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital,The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd,The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits,What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes,What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain'd by decorum,Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""486"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 486,
        ""poem.id"": 486,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:18:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, IX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load,I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""487"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 487,
        ""poem.id"": 487,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanks- giving dinner,The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu- script;The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,What is removed drops horribly in a pail;The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their part- ners, the dancers bow to each other,The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill,The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white sails sparkle!)The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser hig- gling about the odd cent;)The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!)Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand- sons around them,In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport,The city sleeps and the country sleeps,The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,And of these one and all I weave the song of myself."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""488"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 488,
        ""poem.id"": 488,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,Else it were time lost listening to me.I do not snivel that snivel the world over,That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, con- formity goes to the fourth-remov'd,I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close,I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.I know I am solid and sound,To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.I know I am deathless,I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.I know I am august,I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,I see that the elementary laws never apologize,(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)I exist as I am, that is enough,If no other in the world be aware I sit content,And if each and all be aware I sit content.One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is my- self,And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,I laugh at what you call dissolution,And I know the amplitude of time."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""489"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 489,
        ""poem.id"": 489,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.I chant the chant of dilation or pride,We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,I show that size is only development.Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.Press close bare-bosom'd night—press close magnetic nourishing night!Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt!Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!Far-swooping elbow'd earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth!Smile, for your lover comes.Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love!O unspeakable passionate love."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""490"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 490,
        ""poem.id"": 490,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""You sea! I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean,I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land,Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.Sea of stretch'd ground-swells,Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths,Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready graves,Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea,I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases.Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation,Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms.I am he attesting sympathy,(Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?)I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,I moisten the roots of all that has grown.Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and rectified?I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance,Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.This minute that comes to me over the past decillions,There is no better than it and now.What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder,The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""491"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 491,
        ""poem.id"": 491,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Endless unfolding of words of ages!And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.A word of the faith that never balks,Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time abso- lutely.It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.I accept Reality and dare not question it,Materialism first and last imbuing.Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration!Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of the old cartouches,These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas.This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a mathematician.Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.Less the reminders of properties told my words,And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication,And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt,And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""492"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 492,
        ""poem.id"": 492,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXIV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,No more modest than immodest.Unscrew the locks from the doors!Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!Whoever degrades another degrades me,And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the cur- rent and index.I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.Through me many long dumb voices,Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff,And of the rights of them the others are down upon,Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.Through me forbidden voices,Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.I do not press my fingers across my mouth,I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.I believe in the flesh and the appetites,Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch'd from,The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it,Translucent mould of me it shall be you!Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!Firm masculine colter it shall be you!Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!Root of wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be you!Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!Sun so generous it shall be you!Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you.I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again.That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the meta- physics of books.To behold the day-break!The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,The air tastes good to my palate.Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding,Scooting obliquely high and low.Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head,The mocking taunt. See then whether you shall be master!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""493"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 493,
        ""poem.id"": 493,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XVII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me,If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,This the common air that bathes the globe."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""494"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 494,
        ""poem.id"": 494,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XVIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer'd and slain persons.Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.I beat and pound for the dead,I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.Vivas to those who have fail'd!And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!And to those themselves who sank in the sea!And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""495"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 495,
        ""poem.id"": 495,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXVI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Now I will do nothing but listen,To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals,The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence,The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the refrain of the anchor-lifters,The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streak- ing engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights,The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two,(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,Ah this indeed is music—this suits me.A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves,I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,And that we call Being."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""496"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 496,
        ""poem.id"": 496,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXIX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!Did it make you ache so, leaving me?Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan,Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""497"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 497,
        ""poem.id"": 497,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""All truths wait in all things,They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,The insignificant is as big to me as any,(What is less or more than a touch?)Logic and sermons never convince,The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,Only what nobody denies is so.)A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific,And until one and all shall delight us, and we them."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""498"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 498,
        ""poem.id"": 498,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots,And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,But call any thing back again when I desire it.In vain the speeding or shyness,In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low,In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""499"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 499,
        ""poem.id"": 499,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:19:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd,I stand and look at them long and long.They do not sweat and whine about their condition,They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.So they show their relations to me and I accept them,They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.I wonder where they get those tokens,Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?Myself moving forward then and now and forever,Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""500"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 500,
        ""poem.id"": 500,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water,On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported,The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.Our frigate takes fire,The other asks if we demand quarter?If our colors are struck and the fighting done?Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting.Only three guns are in use,One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main- mast,Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top,They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.Not a moment's cease,The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder- magazine.One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.Serene stands the little captain,He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""501"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 501,
        ""poem.id"": 501,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXVI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer'd,The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin,The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers,The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan,These so, these irretrievable."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""502"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 502,
        ""poem.id"": 502,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXVII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""You laggards there on guard! look to your arms!In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am possess'd!Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering,See myself in prison shaped like another man,And feel the dull unintermitted pain.For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side,(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips.)Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced.Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp,My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""503"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 503,
        ""poem.id"": 503,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXVIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Enough! enough! enough!Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping,I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.That I could forget the mockers and insults!That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludg- eons and hammers!That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning.I remember now,I resume the overstaid fraction,The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves,Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession,Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines,Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth,The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years.Eleves, I salute you! come forward!Continue your annotations, continue your questionings."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""504"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 504,
        ""poem.id"": 504,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXIX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? is he Kanadian?Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California?The mountains? prairie-life, bush-life? or sailor from the sea?Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him,They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them.Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb'd head, laughter, and naivetè,Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations,They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out of the glance of his eyes."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""505"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 505,
        ""poem.id"": 505,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XL"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over!You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,Say, old top-knot, what do you want?Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,When I give I give myself.You there, impotent, loose in the knees,Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,And any thing I have I bestow.I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,On his right cheek I put the family kiss,And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes,(This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.)To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door,Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,Let the physician and the priest go home.I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,O despairer, here is my neck,By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up,Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.Sleep—I and they keep guard all night,Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""506"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 506,
        ""poem.id"": 506,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.I heard what was said of the universe,Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;It is middling well as far as it goes—but is that all?Magnifying and applying come I,Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,)Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself, bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves driving the mallet and chisel,Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me than the gods of the antique wars,Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for every person born,Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come,Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and not filling the square rod then,The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes,The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious;By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""507"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 507,
        ""poem.id"": 507,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A call in the midst of the crowd,My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.Come my children,Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on the reeds within.Easily written loose-finger'd chords—I feel the thrum of your climax and close.My head slues round on my neck,Music rolls, but not from the organ,Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.Ever the hard unsunk ground,Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides,Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that breath of itches and thirsts,Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides and bring him forth,Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going.Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving,A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.This is the city and I am one of the citizens,Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools,The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats,I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest is deathless with me,What I do and say the same waits for them,Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.I know perfectly well my own egotism,Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.Not words of routine this song of mine,But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;This printed and bound book—but the printer and the printing- office boy?The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms?The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets— but the pluck of the captain and engineers?In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way?The saints and sages in history—but you yourself?Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain,And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""508"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 508,
        ""poem.id"": 508,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in the circle of obis,Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and austere in the woods a gymnosophist,Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas admirant, minding the Koran,Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife, beating the serpent-skin drum,Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing assuredly that he is divine,To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting patiently in a pew,Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till my spirit arouses me,Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a man leaving charges before a journey.Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief.How the flukes splash!How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,I take my place among you as much as among any,The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same.I do not know what is untried and afterward,But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not a single one can it fail.It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried,Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again,Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall,Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad dis- order,Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo call'd the ordure of humanity,Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""509"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 509,
        ""poem.id"": 509,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLIV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.What is known I strip away,I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.Births have brought us richness and variety,And other births will bring us richness and variety.I do not call one greater and one smaller,That which fills its period and place is equal to any.Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me,All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,(What have I to do with lamentation?)I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be.My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount.Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.Long I was hugg'd close—long and long.Immense have been the preparations for me,Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me.Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.For it the nebula cohered to an orb,The long slow strata piled to rest it on,Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care.All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me,Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""510"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 510,
        ""poem.id"": 510,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity!O manhood, balanced, florid and full.My lovers suffocate me,Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night,Crying by day Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head,Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,Lighting on every moment of my life,Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine.Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days!Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself,And the dark hush promulges as much as any.I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems.Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding,Outward and outward and forever outward.My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels,He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run,We should surely bring up again where we now stand,And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient,They are but parts, any thing is but a part.See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that,Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""511"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 511,
        ""poem.id"": 511,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLVI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,My left hand hooking you round the waist,My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,You must travel it for yourself.It is not far, it is within reach,Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,For after we start we never lie by again.This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.You are also asking me questions and I hear you,I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.Sit a while dear son,Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams,Now I wash the gum from your eyes,You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""512"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 512,
        ""poem.id"": 512,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:20:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLVII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I am the teacher of athletes,He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, but in his own right,Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over all latherers,And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,My words itch at your ears till you understand them.I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat,(It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you,Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air.If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves a key,The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,But roughs and little children better than they.The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day,The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen and love them.The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them,On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me.My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,The young mother and old mother comprehend me,The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,They and all would resume what I have told them."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""513"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 513,
        ""poem.id"": 513,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLVIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I have said that the soul is not more than the body,And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud,And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times,And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero,And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.)I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.Why should I wish to see God better than this day?I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name,And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,Others will punctually come for ever and ever."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""514"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 514,
        ""poem.id"": 514,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XLIX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and pro- motions,If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that decay in the muck,Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""515"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 515,
        ""poem.id"": 515,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, L"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me.Wrench'd and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes,I sleep—I sleep long.I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid,It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.Do you see O my brothers and sisters?It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is Happiness."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""516"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 516,
        ""poem.id"": 516,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, LI"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/21/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)Do I contradict myself?Very well then I contradict myself,(I am large, I contain multitudes.)I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?Who wishes to walk with me?Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""517"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 517,
        ""poem.id"": 517,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXVIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself,On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture- fields,Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges of me,No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.The sentries desert every other part of me,They have left me helpless to a red marauder,They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.I am given up by traitors,I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the greatest traitor,I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there.You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its throat,Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""518"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 518,
        ""poem.id"": 518,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXIII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/12/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the morning.My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,I am afoot with my vision.By the city's quadrangular houses—in log huts, camping with lumbermen,Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,Weeding my onion-patch or hoeing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests,Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the shallow river,Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the buck turns furiously at the hunter,Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the otter is feeding on fish,Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the beaver patsthe mud with his paddle-shaped tail;Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, over the rice in its low moist field,Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and slender shoots from the gutters,Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the delicate blue-flower flax,Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with the rest,Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze;Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low scragged limbs,Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush,Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great gold- bug drops through the dark,Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to the meadow,Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous shud- dering of their hides,Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it my- self and looking composedly down,)Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupt- ing below;Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance,Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game of base-ball,At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter,At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking the juice through a straw,At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles, screams, weeps,Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks are scatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud to the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short jerks,Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie,Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles far and near,Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long- lived swan is curving and winding,Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her near-human laugh,Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by the high weeds,Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with their heads out,Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery,Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh at night and feeds upon small crabs,Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over the well,Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves,Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through the office or public hall;Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd with the new and old,Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome,Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously,Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church,Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preach- er, impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon, flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach,My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle;Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, (behind me he rides at the drape of the day,)Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or the moccasin print,By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him,Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while,Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by my side,Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the diameter of eighty thousand miles,Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly,Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,I tread day and night such roads.I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product,And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul,My course runs below the soundings of plummets.I help myself to material and immaterial,No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me.I anchor my ship for a little while only,My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike- pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.I ascend to the foretruck,I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest,We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough,Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty,The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is plain in all directions,The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my fancies toward them,We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to be engaged,We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution,Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city,The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe.I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.I understand the large hearts of heroes,The courage of present times and all times,How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faith ful of days and faithful of nights,And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you;How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and would not give it up,How he saved the drifting company at last,How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the side of their prepared graves,How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp- lipp'd unshaved men;All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.The disdain and calmness of martyrs,The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on,The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blow- ing, cover'd with sweat,The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the mur- derous buckshot and the bullets,All these I feel or am.I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marks- men,I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin,I fall on the weeds and stones,The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.Agonies are one of my changes of garments,I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person,My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my com- rades,I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake,Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps,The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.Distant and dead resuscitate,They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,I am there again.Again the long roll of the drummers,Again the attacking cannon, mortars,Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.I take part, I see and hear the whole,The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explo- sion,The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves with his hand,He gasps through the clot Mind not me—mind—the entrench- ments."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""519"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 519,
        ""poem.id"": 519,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XXXIV"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/20/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth,(I tell not the fall of Alamo,Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,)'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men.Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks,Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance,Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.They were the glory of the race of rangers,Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters,Not a single one over thirty years of age.The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred, it was beautiful early summer,The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.None obey'd the command to kneel,Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight,A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together,The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers sawthem there,Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets,A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more came to release him,The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""520"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 520,
        ""poem.id"": 520,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, XIX"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appoint- ments with all,I will not have a single person slighted or left away,The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited;There shall be no difference between them and the rest.This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.Do you take it I would astonish?Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering through the woods?Do I astonish more than they?This hour I tell things in confidence,I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17733"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17733,
        ""poem.id"": 17733,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Washington's Monument, February, 1885"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/5/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Ah, not this marble, dead and cold: Far from its base and shaft expanding—the round zones circling, comprehending, Thou, Washington, art all the world's, the continents' entire— not yours alone, America, Europe's as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer's cot, Or frozen North, or sultry South—the African's—the Arab's in his tent, Old Asia's there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins; (Greets the antique the hero new? ‘tis but the same—the heir legitimate, continued ever, The indomitable heart and arm—proofs of the never-broken line, Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same—e'en in defeat defeated not, the same:) Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night, Through teeming cities' streets, indoors or out, factories or farms, Now, or to come, or past—where patriot wills existed or exist, Wherever Freedom, pois'd by Toleration, sway'd by Law, Stands or is rising thy true monument."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17734"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17734,
        ""poem.id"": 17734,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Broadway"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/16/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""What hurrying human tides, or day or night!What passions, winnings, losses, ardors, swim thy waters!What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow, stem thee!What curious questioning glances- glints of love!Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration!Thou portal- thou arena- thou of the myriad long-drawn lines and groups!(Could but thy flagstones, curbs, facades, tell their inimitable tales;Thy windows rich, and huge hotels- thy side-walks wide;)Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling feet!Thou, like the parti-colored world itself- like infinite, teeming,mocking life!Thou visor'd, vast, unspeakable show and lesson!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17735"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17735,
        ""poem.id"": 17735,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Great City"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The place where a great city stands is not the place of stretch'd wharves, docks, manufactures, deposits of produce merely,Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers or the anchor-lifters of the departing,Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings or shops selling goods from the rest of the earth,Nor the place of the best libraries and schools, nor the place where money is plentiest,Nor the place of the most numerous population.Where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and bards,Where the city stands that is belov'd by these, and loves them in return and understands them,Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds,Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place,Where the men and women think lightly of the laws,Where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases,Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of elected persons,Where fierce men and women pour forth as the sea to the whistle of death pours its sweeping and unript waves,Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside authority,Where the citizen is always the head and ideal, and President, Mayor, Governor and what not, are agents for pay,Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on themselves,Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs,Where speculations on the soul are encouraged,Where women walk in public processions in the streets the same as the men,Where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as the men;Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands,Where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands,Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands,Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,There the great city stands."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17736"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17736,
        ""poem.id"": 17736,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Red Jacket (From Aloft)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/4/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Upon this scene, this show,Yielded to-day by fashion, learning, wealth,(Nor in caprice alone- some grains of deepest meaning,)Haply, aloft, (who knows?) from distant sky-clouds' blended shapes,As some old tree, or rock or cliff, thrill'd with its soul,Product of Nature's sun, stars, earth direct- a towering human form,In hunting-shirt of film, arm'd with the rifle, a half-ironicalsmile curving its phantom lips,Like one of Ossian's ghosts looks down."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17737"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17737,
        ""poem.id"": 17737,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Return Of The Heroes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/4/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself,Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of autumn fields,Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee,Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,Tuning a verse for thee.O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice,O harvest of my lands—O boundless Summer growths!O lavish brown parturient earth—O infinite, teeming womb.A song to narrate thee.2Ever upon this stage,Is acted God's calm, annual drama,Gorgeous processions, songs of birds,Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul,The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves,The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees,The lilliput countless armies of the grass,The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages,The scenery of the snows, the wind's free orchestra,The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes,The high dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars,The shows of all the varied soils, and all the growths and products,The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows,The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products.3Fecund America—to-day,Thou art all over set in births and joys!Thou groan'st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as a swathing garment,Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions,A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast demesne,As some huge ship freighted to water's edge thou ridest into port,As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from the earth, so have the precious values fallen upon thee, and risen out of thee;Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle!Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty,Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns,Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle and lookest out upon thy world, and lookest East, and lookest West,Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles, a million farms, and missest nothing,Thou all-acceptress—thou hospitable, (thou only art hospitable as God is hospitable.)4When late I sang sad was my voice;Sad were the shows around me with deafening noises of hatred and smoke of war;In the midst of the conflict, the heroes, I stood,Or pass'd with slow step through the wounded and dying.But now I sing not War,Nor the measur'd march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps,Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle;No more the sad, unnatural shows of war.Ask'd room those flush'd immortal ranks, the first forth-stepping armies?Ask room alas the ghastly ranks—the armies dread that follow'd.(Pass—pass, ye proud brigades, with your tramping, sinewy legs,With your shoulders young and strong, with your knapsacks and your muskets;How elate I stood and watch'd you, where starting off you march'd.Pass;—then rattle drums again,For an army heaves in sight, O another gathering army,Swarming, trailing on the rear, O you dread accruing army,O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhea, with your fever,O my land's maimed darlings, with the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch,Lo, your pallid army follows.)5But on these days of brightness, On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns, Should the dead intrude?Ah the dead to me mar not, they fit well in Nature,They fit very well in the landscape under the trees and grass,And along the edge of the sky in the horizon's far margin.Nor do I forget you Departed;Nor in winter or summer my lost ones,But most in the open air as now when my soul is rapt and at peace, like pleasing phantoms, Your memories rising glide silently by me.6I saw the day the return of the heroes;(Yet the heroes never surpass'd shall never return,Them that day I saw not.)I saw the interminable corps, I saw the processions of armies,I saw them approaching, defiling by with divisions,Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of mighty camps.No holiday soldiers—youthful, yet veterans,Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop,Harden'd of many a long campaign and sweaty march,Inured on many a hard-fought bloody field.A pause—the armies wait,A million flush'd embattled conquerors wait,The world too waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as dawn,They melt, they disappear.Exult O lands! victorious lands!Not there your victory on those red shuddering fields;But here and hence your victory.Melt, melt away, ye armies—disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers,Resolve ye back again, give up for good your deadly arms,Other the arms the fields henceforth for you, or South or North,With saner wars, sweet wars, life-giving wars.7Loud O my throat, and clear O soul!The season of thanks and the voice of full-yielding,The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.All till'd and untill'd fields expand before me,I see the true arenas of my race and land—or first or last,Man's innocent and strong arenas.I see the heroes at other toils,I see well-wielded in their hands the better weapons.I see where the Mother of All,With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long,And counts the varied gathering of the products.Busy the far, the sunlit panorama,Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North,Cotton and rice of the South and Louisianian cane,Open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy,Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine,And many a stately river flowing and many a jocund brook,And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes,And the good green grass, that delicate miracle the ever-recurring grass.8Toil on heroes! harvest the products!Not alone on those warlike fields the Mother of All,With dilated form and lambent eyes watch'd you.Toil on heroes! toil well! handle the weapons well!The Mother of All, yet here as ever she watches you.Well-pleased America thou beholdest,Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters,The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements;Beholdest, moving in every direction imbued as with life the revolving hay-rakes,The steam-power reaping-machines and the horse-power machines,The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw, the nimble work of the patent pitchfork;Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser.Beneath thy look O Maternal,With these and else and with their own strong hands the heroes harvest.All gather and all harvest;Yet but for thee O Powerful, not a scythe might swing as now in security,Not a maize-stalk dangle as now its silken tassels in peace.Under thee only they harvest, even but a wisp of hay under thy great face only,Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every barbed spear under thee,Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, each ear in its light-green sheath,Gather the hay to its myriad mows in the odorous tranquil barns,Oats to their bins, the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs;Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama, dig and hoard the golden the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas,Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp or tobacco in the Borders,Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees or bunches of grapes from the vines,Or aught that ripens in all these States or North or South,Under the beaming sun and under thee."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17738"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17738,
        ""poem.id"": 17738,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Virgil Strange I Kept On The Field"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17739"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17739,
        ""poem.id"": 17739,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Carols"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17740"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17740,
        ""poem.id"": 17740,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vicouac On A Mountain Side"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17741"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17741,
        ""poem.id"": 17741,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, LII"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/28/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17742"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17742,
        ""poem.id"": 17742,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Visor'D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17743"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17743,
        ""poem.id"": 17743,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Oratists"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17744"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17744,
        ""poem.id"": 17744,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, III"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/18/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the endBut I do not talk of the beginning or the end.There was never any more inception than there is now,Nor any more youth or age than there is now,And will never be any more perfection than there is now,Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.Urge and urge and urge,Always the procreant urge of the world.Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex,Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,I and this mystery here we stand.Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread.Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty,Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,That they turn from gazing after and down the road,And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17745"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17745,
        ""poem.id"": 17745,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:54:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thick-Sprinkled Bunting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17746"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17746,
        ""poem.id"": 17746,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Longings For Home"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O MAGNET-SOUTH! O glistening, perfumed South! My South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me! O dear to me my birth-things—All moving things, and the trees where I wasborn—thegrains,plants, rivers; Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, distant, over flats of silverysands,orthrough swamps; Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the Altamahaw, the Pedee, the Tombigbee, the Santee,theCoosa, and the Sabine;O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my Soul to haunt their banks again; Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes—I float on the Okeechobee—I crossthehummock land, or through pleasant openings, or dense forests; I see the parrots in the woods—I see the papaw tree and the blossoming titi; Again, sailing in my coaster, on deck, I coast off Georgia—I coast up the Carolinas, I see where the live-oak is growing—I see where the yellow-pine, the scentedbay-tree, thelemon and orange, the cypress, the graceful palmetto;I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico Sound through an inlet, and dart my visioninland; O the cotton plant! the growing fields of rice, sugar, hemp! The cactus, guarded with thorns—the laurel-tree, with large white flowers; The range afar—the richness and barrenness—the old woods charged with mistletoeandtrailing moss, The piney odor and the gloom—the awful natural stillness, (Here in these dense swampsthefreebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive slave has his conceal'd hut;)O the strange fascination of these half-known, half-impassable swamps, infested byreptiles,resounding with the bellow of the alligator, the sad noises of the night-owl and thewild-cat,andthe whirr of the rattlesnake; The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the forenoon—singing through themoon-litnight, The humming-bird, the wild turkey, the raccoon, the opossum; A Tennessee corn-field—the tall, graceful, long-leav'd corn—slender,flapping,brightgreen with tassels—with beautiful ears, each well-sheath'd in its husk; An Arkansas prairie—a sleeping lake, or still bayou;O my heart! O tender and fierce pangs—I can stand them not—I will depart; O to be a Virginian, where I grew up! O to be a Carolinian! O longings irrepressible! O I will go back to old Tennessee, and never wander more!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17747"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17747,
        ""poem.id"": 17747,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Turn, O Libertad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17748"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17748,
        ""poem.id"": 17748,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Two-How Long We Were Fool'D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17749"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17749,
        ""poem.id"": 17749,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Rivulets"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17750"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17750,
        ""poem.id"": 17750,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Certain Cantatrice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17751"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17751,
        ""poem.id"": 17751,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Place Is Besieged?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17752"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17752,
        ""poem.id"": 17752,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Rich Givers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17753"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17753,
        ""poem.id"": 17753,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Foil'D European Revolutionaire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17754"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17754,
        ""poem.id"": 17754,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wandering At Morn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17755"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17755,
        ""poem.id"": 17755,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The World Below The Brine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17756"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17756,
        ""poem.id"": 17756,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Western Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17757"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17757,
        ""poem.id"": 17757,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Man-Of-War-Bird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17758"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17758,
        ""poem.id"": 17758,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Leaven'D Soil They Trod"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17759"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17759,
        ""poem.id"": 17759,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:55:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Certain Civilian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17760"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17760,
        ""poem.id"": 17760,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Virginia--The West"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17761"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17761,
        ""poem.id"": 17761,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thou Orb Aloft Full-Dazzling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17762"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17762,
        ""poem.id"": 17762,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The States"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17763"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17763,
        ""poem.id"": 17763,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vigil Strange I Kept On The Field One Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17764"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17764,
        ""poem.id"": 17764,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Foreign Lands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17765"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17765,
        ""poem.id"": 17765,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Unfolded Out Of The Folds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17766"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17766,
        ""poem.id"": 17766,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Thee, Old Cause!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17767"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17767,
        ""poem.id"": 17767,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17769"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17769,
        ""poem.id"": 17769,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Historian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17770"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17770,
        ""poem.id"": 17770,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Voice Of The Rain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/11/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, andyet the same,I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,and make pure and beautify it;(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17771"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17771,
        ""poem.id"": 17771,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:56:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Him That Was Crucified"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17772"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17772,
        ""poem.id"": 17772,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Torch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17773"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17773,
        ""poem.id"": 17773,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Moment, Yearning And Thoughtful"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17775"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17775,
        ""poem.id"": 17775,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Garden The World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17776"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17776,
        ""poem.id"": 17776,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These, I, Singing In Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17777"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17777,
        ""poem.id"": 17777,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Reader At Parting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17779"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17779,
        ""poem.id"": 17779,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The East And To The West"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17780"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17780,
        ""poem.id"": 17780,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Compost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17781"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17781,
        ""poem.id"": 17781,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thoughts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17782"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17782,
        ""poem.id"": 17782,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Pupil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17783"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17783,
        ""poem.id"": 17783,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Singer In The Prison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17784"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17784,
        ""poem.id"": 17784,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, II"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,I am mad for it to be in contact with me.The smoke of my own breath,Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the pass- ing of blood and air through my lungs,The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind,A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17785"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17785,
        ""poem.id"": 17785,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Warble Of Lilac-Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17786"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17786,
        ""poem.id"": 17786,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What General Has A Good Army"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17787"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17787,
        ""poem.id"": 17787,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Voices"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17788"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17788,
        ""poem.id"": 17788,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Best I See In Thee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17789"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17789,
        ""poem.id"": 17789,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:57:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Think Of The Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17790"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17790,
        ""poem.id"": 17790,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To One Shortly To Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17791"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17791,
        ""poem.id"": 17791,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Old Age"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17792"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17792,
        ""poem.id"": 17792,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wound Dresser"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17793"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17793,
        ""poem.id"": 17793,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17794"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17794,
        ""poem.id"": 17794,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Day, O Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17795"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17795,
        ""poem.id"": 17795,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Weave In, Weave In, My Hardy Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17796"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17796,
        ""poem.id"": 17796,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Unexpressed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17797"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17797,
        ""poem.id"": 17797,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Common Prostitute"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17798"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17798,
        ""poem.id"": 17798,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A President"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17799"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17799,
        ""poem.id"": 17799,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Think Of Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17800"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17800,
        ""poem.id"": 17800,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Am I, After All?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17801"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17801,
        ""poem.id"": 17801,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Untold Want"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17802"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17802,
        ""poem.id"": 17802,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:58:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prairie States"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17803"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17803,
        ""poem.id"": 17803,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Locomotive In Winter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17804"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17804,
        ""poem.id"": 17804,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prairie-Grass Dividing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17805"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17805,
        ""poem.id"": 17805,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Two Boys Together Clinging"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17806"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17806,
        ""poem.id"": 17806,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Think You I Take My Pen In Hand?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17807"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17807,
        ""poem.id"": 17807,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Walt Whitman's Caution"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17808"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17808,
        ""poem.id"": 17808,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lo! Victress On The Peaks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17809"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17809,
        ""poem.id"": 17809,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ship Starting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17810"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17810,
        ""poem.id"": 17810,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song Of Joys"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O to make the most jubilant song!Full of music-full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!Full of common employments-full of grain and trees.O for the voices of animals-O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!O the joy of my spirit-it is uncaged-it darts like lightning!It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,I will have thousands of globes and all time.O the engineer's joys! to go with a locomotive!To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, thelaughing locomotive!To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist freshstillness of the woods,The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through theforenoon.O the horseman's and horsewoman's joys!The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the coolgurgling by the ears and hair.O the fireman's joys!I hear the alarm at dead of night,I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena inperfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet hisopponent.O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the humansoul is capable of generating and emitting in steady andlimitless floods.O the mother's joys!The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, thepatiently yielded life.O the of increase, growth, recuperation,The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.O to go back to the place where I was born,To hear the birds sing once more,To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,To continue and be employ'd there all my life,The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at low water,The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,Is the tide out? I Join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesomeyoung man;In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on footon the ice-I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon,my brood of tough boys accompanying me,My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with noone else so well as they love to be with me,By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-potswhere they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys,)O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I rowjust before sunrise toward the buoys,I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters aredesperate with their claws as I take them out, I insertwooden pegs in the ‘oints of their pincers,I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to theshore,There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil'dtill their color becomes scarlet.Another time mackerel-taking,Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill thewater for miles;Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of thebrown-faced crew;Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand withbraced body,My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out thecoils of slender rope,In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, mycompanions.O boating on the rivers,The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raftand the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cooksupper at evening.(O something pernicious and dread!Something far away from a puny and pious life!Something unproved! something in a trance!Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)O to work in mines, or forging iron,Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ampleand shadow'd space,The furnace, the hot liquid pour'd out and running.O to resume the joys of the soldier!To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer-to feel hissympathy!To behold his calmness-to be warm'd in the rays of his smile!To go to battle-to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!To hear the crash of artillery-to see the glittering of the bayonetsand musket-barrels in the sun!To see men fall and die and not complain!To taste the savage taste of blood-to be so devilish!To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.O the whaleman's joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!I feel the ship's motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezesfanning me,I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There- sheblows!Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest- we descend,wild with excitement,I leap in the lower'd boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,lethargic, basking,I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from hisvigorous arm;O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,running to windward, tows me,Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,I see a lance driven through his side, press'd deep, turn'd in thewound,Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving himfast,As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower andnarrower, swiftly cutting the water-I see him die,He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and thenfalls flat and still in the bloody foam.O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.O ripen'd joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother,How clear is my mind-how all people draw nigh to me!What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom morethan the bloom of youth?What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?O the orator's joys!To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from theribs and throat,To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,To lead America-to quell America with a great tongue.O the joy of my soul leaning pois'd on itself, receiving identitythrough materials and loving them, observing charactersand absorbing them,My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses andflesh,My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyeswhich finally see,Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,embraces, procreates.O the farmer's joys!Ohioan's, Illinoisian's, Wisconsinese', Kanadian's, Iowan's,Kansian's, Missourian's, Oregonese' joys!To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,To plough land in the spring for maize,To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along theshore.O to realize space!The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flyingclouds, as one with them.O the joy a manly self-hood!To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known orunknown,To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,To confront with your personality all the other personalities of theearth.Know'st thou the excellent joys of youth?Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughingface?Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath'd games?Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the dancers?Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?Yet O my soul supreme!Know'st thou the joys of pensive thought?Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow'd yet proud, the sufferingand the struggle?The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings dayor night?Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?Prophetic joys of better, loftier love's ideals, the divine wife,the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade?Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,To meet life as a powerful conqueror,No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, provingmy interior soul impregnable,And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.For not life's joys alone I sing, repeating-the joy of death!The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments,for reasons,Myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn'd, or render'dto powder, or buried,My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,My voided body nothing more to me, returning to the purifications,further offices, eternal uses of the earth.O to attract by more than attraction!How it is I know not-yet behold! the something which obeys noneof the rest,It is offensive, never defensive-yet how magnetic it draws.O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns withperfect nonchalance!To be indeed a God!O to sail to sea in a ship!To leave this steady unendurable land,To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and thehouses,To leave you O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship,To sail and sail and sail!O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys!To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on!To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports,A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,)A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17811"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17811,
        ""poem.id"": 17811,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ox Tamer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17812"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17812,
        ""poem.id"": 17812,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This Dust Was Once The Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17813"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17813,
        ""poem.id"": 17813,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spain 1873-'74"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17814"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17814,
        ""poem.id"": 17814,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Solid, Ironical, Rolling Orb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17815"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17815,
        ""poem.id"": 17815,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sleepers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17816"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17816,
        ""poem.id"": 17816,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 04:59:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Centerarian's Story"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17817"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17817,
        ""poem.id"": 17817,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sing Of The Banner At Day-Break"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17818"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17818,
        ""poem.id"": 17818,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""States!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17819"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17819,
        ""poem.id"": 17819,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Long, Too Long, O Land!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17820"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17820,
        ""poem.id"": 17820,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Was A Child Went Forth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17821"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17821,
        ""poem.id"": 17821,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Locations And Times"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17822"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17822,
        ""poem.id"": 17822,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Indications"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17823"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17823,
        ""poem.id"": 17823,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Base Of All Metaphysics"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17824"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17824,
        ""poem.id"": 17824,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17825"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17825,
        ""poem.id"": 17825,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not Heaving From My Ribb'D Breast Only"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17826"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17826,
        ""poem.id"": 17826,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Peruse The Conquer'D Fame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17827"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17827,
        ""poem.id"": 17827,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Savantism"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17828"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17828,
        ""poem.id"": 17828,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:00:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spirit That Form'D Theis Scene"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17829"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17829,
        ""poem.id"": 17829,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Other May Praise What They Like"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17830"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17830,
        ""poem.id"": 17830,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prayer Of Columbus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17831"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17831,
        ""poem.id"": 17831,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Labor-Saving Machine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17832"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17832,
        ""poem.id"": 17832,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Recorders Ages Hence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17833"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17833,
        ""poem.id"": 17833,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Over The Carnage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17834"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17834,
        ""poem.id"": 17834,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tests"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17835"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17835,
        ""poem.id"": 17835,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now List To My Morning's Romanza"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17836"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17836,
        ""poem.id"": 17836,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Sweeps By"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17837"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17837,
        ""poem.id"": 17837,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""France, The 18th Year Of These States"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17838"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17838,
        ""poem.id"": 17838,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pensive On Her Dead Gazing, I Heard The Mother Of All"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17839"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17839,
        ""poem.id"": 17839,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Says"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17840"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17840,
        ""poem.id"": 17840,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:01:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Race Of Veterans"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17841"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17841,
        ""poem.id"": 17841,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not Youth Pertains To Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17842"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17842,
        ""poem.id"": 17842,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Still, Though The One I Sing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17843"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17843,
        ""poem.id"": 17843,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Weeping Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17844"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17844,
        ""poem.id"": 17844,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Heard You, Solemn-Sweep Pipes Of The Organ"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17845"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17845,
        ""poem.id"": 17845,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Respondez!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17846"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17846,
        ""poem.id"": 17846,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scented Herbage Of My Breast"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17847"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17847,
        ""poem.id"": 17847,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shut Not Your Doors, &C."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17848"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17848,
        ""poem.id"": 17848,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Broad-Axe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17849"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17849,
        ""poem.id"": 17849,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Paumanok Starting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17850"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17850,
        ""poem.id"": 17850,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Bitter Sprig! Confession Sprig!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17851,
        ""poem.id"": 17851,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not My Enemies Ever Invade Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17852,
        ""poem.id"": 17852,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Year Of Meteors, 1859 '60"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17853"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17853,
        ""poem.id"": 17853,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Far Dakota's Canons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17854"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17854,
        ""poem.id"": 17854,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mediums"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17855"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17855,
        ""poem.id"": 17855,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:02:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Delicate Cluster"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17856,
        ""poem.id"": 17856,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Saw Old General At Bay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17857,
        ""poem.id"": 17857,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Europe, The 72d And 73d Years Of These States"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17858,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The City Dead-House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poem.id"": 17859,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not The Pilot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17860,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Not Heat Flames Up And Consumes"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dresser"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17862,
        ""poem.id"": 17862,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rise, O Days"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17863"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17863,
        ""poem.id"": 17863,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Invocation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17864,
        ""poem.id"": 17864,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Behold This Swarthy Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17865,
        ""poem.id"": 17865,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Joy, Shipmate, Joy!"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17866,
        ""poem.id"": 17866,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sparkles From The Wheel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17867,
        ""poem.id"": 17867,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Native Moments"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17868,
        ""poem.id"": 17868,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:03:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Chanting The Square Deific"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17869,
        ""poem.id"": 17869,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Starting From Paumanok"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17870,
        ""poem.id"": 17870,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Me Imperturbe"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17871,
        ""poem.id"": 17871,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hush'D Be The Camps Today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17872,
        ""poem.id"": 17872,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Offerings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17873,
        ""poem.id"": 17873,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Once I Pass'D Through A Populous City"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17874,
        ""poem.id"": 17874,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In The New Garden In All The Parts"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17875,
        ""poem.id"": 17875,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spirit Whose Work Is Done"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17876,
        ""poem.id"": 17876,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Toilsome I Wander'D"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17877,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Former Songs"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17878,
        ""poem.id"": 17878,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Patroling Barnegat"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17879,
        ""poem.id"": 17879,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With Antecedents"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17880,
        ""poem.id"": 17880,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mystic Trumpeter"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17881,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Long I Thought That Knowledge"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17882,
        ""poem.id"": 17882,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:04:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ethiopia Saluting The Colors"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17883,
        ""poem.id"": 17883,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Artilleryman's Vision"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17884,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of The Visage Of Things"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17885,
        ""poem.id"": 17885,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poem Of Remembrance For A Girl Or A Boy"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17886,
        ""poem.id"": 17886,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Italian Music In Dakota"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17887,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Out From Behind His Mask"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17888,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hast Never Come To Thee An Hour"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17889,
        ""poem.id"": 17889,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fast Anchor'D, Eternal, O Love"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17890,
        ""poem.id"": 17890,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Proud Music Of The Storm"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Beach At Night, Alone"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17892,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eidólons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17893,
        ""poem.id"": 17893,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Exposition"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17894,
        ""poem.id"": 17894,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hush'D Be The Camps To-Day"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17895,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:05:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dalliance Of The Eagles"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mother And Babe"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Pent-Up Aching Rivers"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 17898,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""President Lincoln's Burial Hymn"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17899,
        ""poem.id"": 17899,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Quicksand Years"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17900,
        ""poem.id"": 17900,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That Last Invocation"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17901,
        ""poem.id"": 17901,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Read The Book"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17902,
        ""poem.id"": 17902,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Carol Of Occupations"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17903,
        ""poem.id"": 17903,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Manhattan Streets I Saunter'D, Pondering"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17904,
        ""poem.id"": 17904,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now Finale To The Shore"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17905,
        ""poem.id"": 17905,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Learns My Lesson Complete?"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17906,
        ""poem.id"": 17906,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Hour To Madness And Joy"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17907,
        ""poem.id"": 17907,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""By Broad Potomac's Shore"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17908,
        ""poem.id"": 17908,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Souvenirs Of Democracy"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17909,
        ""poem.id"": 17909,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:06:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Cabin'D Ships At Sea"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17910,
        ""poem.id"": 17910,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Salut Au Monde"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17911,
        ""poem.id"": 17911,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bivouac On A Mountain Side"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17912"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17912,
        ""poem.id"": 17912,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Redwood-Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17913"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17913,
        ""poem.id"": 17913,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Journeys Through The States"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17914"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17914,
        ""poem.id"": 17914,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Tan-Faced Prairie Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17915"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17915,
        ""poem.id"": 17915,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whispers Of Heavenly Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17916"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17916,
        ""poem.id"": 17916,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Year That Trembled"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17917"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17917,
        ""poem.id"": 17917,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brother Of All, With Genesrous Hand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17918"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17918,
        ""poem.id"": 17918,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Consequent, Etc."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17919"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17919,
        ""poem.id"": 17919,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From My Last Years"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17920"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17920,
        ""poem.id"": 17920,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Earth! My Likeness!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17921"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17921,
        ""poem.id"": 17921,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of The Terrible Doubt Of Apperarances"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17922"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17922,
        ""poem.id"": 17922,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Star Of France"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17923"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17923,
        ""poem.id"": 17923,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:07:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""City Of Orgies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17924"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17924,
        ""poem.id"": 17924,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Darest Thou Now, O Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17925"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17925,
        ""poem.id"": 17925,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Hear It Was Charged Against Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17926"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17926,
        ""poem.id"": 17926,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sea-Shore Memories"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17927"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17927,
        ""poem.id"": 17927,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here The Frailest Leaves Of Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17928"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17928,
        ""poem.id"": 17928,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17929"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17929,
        ""poem.id"": 17929,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dirge For Two Veterans"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17930"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17930,
        ""poem.id"": 17930,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Roaming In Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17931"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17931,
        ""poem.id"": 17931,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Long"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17932"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17932,
        ""poem.id"": 17932,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Runner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17933"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17933,
        ""poem.id"": 17933,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Myself And Mine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17934"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17934,
        ""poem.id"": 17934,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beginning My Studies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17935"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17935,
        ""poem.id"": 17935,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song For All Seas, All Ships"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17936"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17936,
        ""poem.id"": 17936,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:08:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As A Strong Bird On Pinious Free"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""17937"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17937,
        ""poem.id"": 17937,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pensive And Faltering"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17938"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17938,
        ""poem.id"": 17938,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Picture-Callery"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17939"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17939,
        ""poem.id"": 17939,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""World, Take Good Notice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17940"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17940,
        ""poem.id"": 17940,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Night On The Prairies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17941"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17941,
        ""poem.id"": 17941,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Heard At The Close Of The Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17942"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17942,
        ""poem.id"": 17942,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Passage To India"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17943"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17943,
        ""poem.id"": 17943,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Paths Untrodden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17944"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17944,
        ""poem.id"": 17944,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Apostroph"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17945"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17945,
        ""poem.id"": 17945,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Toilsome I Wander'D Virginia's Woods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17946"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17946,
        ""poem.id"": 17946,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With All Thy Gifts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17947"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17947,
        ""poem.id"": 17947,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Years Of The Modern"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17948"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17948,
        ""poem.id"": 17948,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Perfections"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17949"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17949,
        ""poem.id"": 17949,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Facing West From California's Shores"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17950"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17950,
        ""poem.id"": 17950,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:09:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poems Of Joys"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17951"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17951,
        ""poem.id"": 17951,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Reconciliation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17952"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17952,
        ""poem.id"": 17952,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Great Are The Myths"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17953"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17953,
        ""poem.id"": 17953,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Despairing Cries"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17954"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17954,
        ""poem.id"": 17954,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Saw In Louisiana A Live Oak Growing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17955"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17955,
        ""poem.id"": 17955,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Adam, Early In The Morning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17956"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17956,
        ""poem.id"": 17956,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Carol Of Words"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17957"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17957,
        ""poem.id"": 17957,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Long, Too Long America"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17958"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17958,
        ""poem.id"": 17958,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who Is Now Reading This?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17959"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17959,
        ""poem.id"": 17959,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Come Up From The Fields, Father"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17960"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17960,
        ""poem.id"": 17960,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Camps Of Green"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17961"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17961,
        ""poem.id"": 17961,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Drum-Taps"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17962"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17962,
        ""poem.id"": 17962,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One's Self I Sing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17963"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17963,
        ""poem.id"": 17963,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:10:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Him I Sing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17964"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17964,
        ""poem.id"": 17964,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hours Continuing Long"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17965"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17965,
        ""poem.id"": 17965,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Universal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17966"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17966,
        ""poem.id"": 17966,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Excelsior"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17967"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17967,
        ""poem.id"": 17967,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As I Lay With Head In Your Lap, Camerado"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17968"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17968,
        ""poem.id"": 17968,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kosmos"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17969"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17969,
        ""poem.id"": 17969,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Army Corps On The March"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17970"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17970,
        ""poem.id"": 17970,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spontaneous Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17971"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17971,
        ""poem.id"": 17971,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Portals"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17972"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17972,
        ""poem.id"": 17972,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As I Sat Alone By Blue Ontario's Shores"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
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    ""17973"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 17973,
        ""poem.id"": 17973,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:11:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beginners"",
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        ""poem.id"": 18031,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, X"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my side. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud,My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;You should have been with us that day round the chowder- kettle.I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl,Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand,She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet.The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd feet,And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes,And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north,I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18033"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18033,
        ""poem.id"": 18033,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Open Road"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18034"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18034,
        ""poem.id"": 18034,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As At Thy Portals Also Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18035"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18035,
        ""poem.id"": 18035,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Behavior"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18036"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18036,
        ""poem.id"": 18036,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""City Of Ships"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18037"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18037,
        ""poem.id"": 18037,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cavalry Crossing A Ford"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18038"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18038,
        ""poem.id"": 18038,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Give Me The Splendid, Silent Sun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18039"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18039,
        ""poem.id"": 18039,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Hymen! O Hymenee!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18040"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18040,
        ""poem.id"": 18040,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:16:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Sing The Body Electric"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18041"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18041,
        ""poem.id"": 18041,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Living Always--Always Dying"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18042"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18042,
        ""poem.id"": 18042,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Aboard At A Ship's Helm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18043"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18043,
        ""poem.id"": 18043,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Are You The New Person, Drawn Toward Me?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18044"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18044,
        ""poem.id"": 18044,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Boston Ballad, 1854"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; Here's a good place at the corner--I must stand and see the show. Clear the way there, Jonathan! Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon! Way for the Federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously tumbling. I love to look on the stars and stripes--I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle. How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. A fog follows--antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. 10 Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cock'd hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoulders! What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums? Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level them? If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President's marshal; If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon. For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss'd arms, and let your white hair be; 20 Here gape your great grand-sons--their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well dress'd--see how orderly they conduct themselves. Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you? Retreat then! Pell-mell! To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! I do not think you belong here, anyhow. But there is one thing that belongs here--shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston? I will whisper it to the Mayor--he shall send a committee to England; They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault--haste! 30 Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave- clothes, box up his bones for a journey; Find a swift Yankee clipper--here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay. Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government cannon, Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons. This centre-piece for them: Look! all orderly citizens--look from the windows, women! The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay, Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull. You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own. Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan--you are a made man from this day; 40 You are mighty cute--and here is one of your bargains."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18045"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18045,
        ""poem.id"": 18045,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Paumanok Picture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18046"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18046,
        ""poem.id"": 18046,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beat! Beat! Drums!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18047"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18047,
        ""poem.id"": 18047,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O You Whom I Often And Silently Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18048"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18048,
        ""poem.id"": 18048,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Leaf For Hand In Hand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18049"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18049,
        ""poem.id"": 18049,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Adieu To A Soldier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18050"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18050,
        ""poem.id"": 18050,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Midnight Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18051"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18051,
        ""poem.id"": 18051,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Miracles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHY! who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, 10 Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best-- mechanics, boatmen, farmers, Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera, Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, 20 Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. To me the sea is a continual miracle; 30 The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18052"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18052,
        ""poem.id"": 18052,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Promise To California"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18053"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18053,
        ""poem.id"": 18053,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When I Heard The Learned Astronomer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18054"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18054,
        ""poem.id"": 18054,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""After The Sea-Ship"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18055"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18055,
        ""poem.id"": 18055,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:17:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A March In The Ranks, Hard-Prest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A MARCH in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown; A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness; Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating; Till after midnight glimmer upon us, the lights of a dim-lighted building; We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted building; 'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads--'tis now an impromptu hospital; --Entering but for a minute, I see a sight beyond all the pictures and poems ever made: Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and lamps, And by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and clouds of smoke; By these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely I see, on the floor, some in the pews laid down; 10 At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen;) I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a lily;) Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene, fain to absorb it all; Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, some of them dead; Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, the odor of blood; The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers--the yard outside also fill'd; Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the death-spasm sweating; An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls; The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the torches; These I resume as I chant--I see again the forms, I smell the odor; 20 Then hear outside the orders given, Fall in, my men, Fall in; But first I bend to the dying lad--his eyes open--a half-smile gives he me; Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness, Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks, The unknown road still marching."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18056"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18056,
        ""poem.id"": 18056,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Sight In Camp"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18057"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18057,
        ""poem.id"": 18057,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Lilacs Last In The Dooryard Bloom'D"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""from Memories of President Lincoln1When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.2O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night -- O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear'd -- O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless -- O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.3In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle -- and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.4In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song.Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, If thou wast not granted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)5Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin.6Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crepe-veil'd women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs -- where amid these you journey, With the tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you a sprig of lilac.7(Nor for you, for one alone, Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you with roses and early lilies, But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)8O western orb sailing the heaven, Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd, As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on,) As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe, As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night, As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb, Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.9Sing on there in the swamp, O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call, I hear, I come presently, I understand you, But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me, The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.10O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my soul for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?Sea-winds blown from the east and west, Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, These and with these and the breath of my chant, I'll perfume the grave of him I love.11O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, To adorn the burial-house of him I love?Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, In the distance of the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there, With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows, And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.12Lo, body and soul -- this land, My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships, The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn.Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.13Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird, Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes, Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song, Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.O liquid and free and tender! O wild and loose to my soul -- O wondrous singer! You only I hear -- yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,) Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.14Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent -- lo, then and there, Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail, And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy cedars and the ghostly pines so still.And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me, The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three, And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.>From deep secluded recesses, >From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird.And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death.Prais'd be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love -- but praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when you have taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.Over the treetops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-packed cities and all the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.15To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.Loud in the pines and cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, And I with my comrades there in the night.While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions.And I saw askant the armies, I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles I saw them, And carried hither and yon through the smoke and torn and bloody, And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war, But I saw they were not as was thought, They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd, And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.16Passing the visions, passing the night, Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.I cease from my song for thee, From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe, With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I loved so well, For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands -- and this for his dear sake, Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18058"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18058,
        ""poem.id"": 18058,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leaves Of Grass. A Carol Of Harvest For 1867"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18059"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18059,
        ""poem.id"": 18059,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Sit And Look Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18060"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18060,
        ""poem.id"": 18060,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Myself, I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18061"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18061,
        ""poem.id"": 18061,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Stranger"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18062"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18062,
        ""poem.id"": 18062,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beautiful Women"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18063"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18063,
        ""poem.id"": 18063,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Riddle Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THAT which eludes this verse and any verse, Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye or cunningest mind, Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth, And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout the world incessantly, Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss, Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an illusion, Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the owner, Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians in prose, Which sculptor never chisel'd yet, nor painter painted, Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter'd, 10 Invoking here and now I challenge for my song. Indifferently, 'mid public, private haunts, in solitude, Behind the mountain and the wood, Companion of the city's busiest streets, through the assemblage, It and its radiations constantly glide. In looks of fair unconscious babes, Or strangely in the coffin'd dead, Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night, As some dissolving delicate film of dreams, Hiding yet lingering. 20 Two little breaths of words comprising it. Two words, yet all from first to last comprised in it. How ardently for it! How many ships have sail'd and sunk for it! How many travelers started from their homes and ne'er return'd! How much of genius boldly staked and lost for it! What countless stores of beauty, love, ventur'd for it! How all superbest deeds since Time began are traceable to it--and shall be to the end! How all heroic martyrdoms to it! How, justified by it, the horrors, evils, battles of the earth! 30 How the bright fascinating lambent flames of it, in every age and land, have drawn men's eyes, Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, the sky, the islands, and the cliffs, Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable. Haply God's riddle it, so vague and yet so certain, The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it, And heaven at last for it."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18064"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18064,
        ""poem.id"": 18064,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Me! O Life!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18065"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18065,
        ""poem.id"": 18065,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Farm-Picture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18066"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18066,
        ""poem.id"": 18066,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Hand-Mirror"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18067"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18067,
        ""poem.id"": 18067,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All Is Truth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18068"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18068,
        ""poem.id"": 18068,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Hear America Singing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18069"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18069,
        ""poem.id"": 18069,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:18:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""1861"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18070"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18070,
        ""poem.id"": 18070,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18071"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18071,
        ""poem.id"": 18071,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Woman Waits For Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking. Sex contains all, Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations, Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk; All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth, All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth, These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself. Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex, 10 Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers. Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women, I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me; I see that they understand me, and do not deny me; I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of those women. They are not one jot less than I am, They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds, Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength, They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves, They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well- possess'd of themselves. 20 I draw you close to me, you women! I cannot let you go, I would do you good, I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for others' sakes; Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards, They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me. It is I, you women--I make my way, I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you, I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you, I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I press with slow rude muscle, I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties, 30 I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me. Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself, In you I wrap a thousand onward years, On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America, The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians, and singers, The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn, I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings, I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now, I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now, I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so lovingly now. 40"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18072"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18072,
        ""poem.id"": 18072,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Child's Amaze"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18073"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18073,
        ""poem.id"": 18073,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Glimpse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18074"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18074,
        ""poem.id"": 18074,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Noiseless Patient Spider"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18075"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18075,
        ""poem.id"": 18075,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Child Said, What Is The Grass?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/20/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,Growing among black folks as among white,Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.Tenderly will I use you curling grass,It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,And here you are the mother's laps.This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,Darker than the colorless beards of old men,Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.What do you think has become of the young and old men?What do you think has become of the women and children?They are alive and well somewhere;The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,And ceased the moment life appeared.All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18076"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18076,
        ""poem.id"": 18076,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Clear Midnight"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    },
    ""18077"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18077,
        ""poem.id"": 18077,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Captain! My Captain!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Walt Whitman""
    }
}"
14,"2018-02-28 20:33:54","Charles Bukowski","{
    ""521"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 521,
        ""poem.id"": 521,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A 340 Dollar Horse And A Hundred Dollar Whore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""522"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 522,
        ""poem.id"": 522,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Great Escape"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/5/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""listen, he said, you ever seen a bunch of crabs in a bucket? no, I told him.well, what happens is that now and then one crabwill climb up on top of the othersand begin to climb toward the top of the bucket,then, just as he's about to escapeanother crab grabs him and pulls him backdown.really? I asked.really, he said, and this job is just like that, noneof the others want anybody to get out of here. that's just the way it isin the postal service! I believe you, I said.just then the supervisor walked up and said,you fellows were talking.there is no talking allowed on thisjob.I had been there for eleven and one-halfyears.I got up off my stool and climbed right up the supervisorand then I reached up and pulled myself rightout of there.it was so easy it was unbelievable.but none of the others followed me.and after that, whenever I had crab legsI thought about that place.I must have thought about that placemaybe 5 or 6 timesbefore I switched to lobster."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""523"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 523,
        ""poem.id"": 523,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beasts Bounding Through Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/19/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Van Gogh writing his brother for paintsHemingway testing his shotgunCeline going broke as a doctor of medicinethe impossibility of being humanVillon expelled from Paris for being a thiefFaulkner drunk in the gutters of his townthe impossibility of being humanBurroughs killing his wife with a gunMailer stabbing histhe impossibility of being humanMaupassant going mad in a rowboatDostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shotCrane off the back of a boat into the propellerthe impossibilitySylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potatoHarry Crosby leaping into that Black SunLorca murdered in the road by Spanish troopsthe impossibilityArtaud sitting on a madhouse benchChatterton drinking rat poisonShakespeare a plagiaristBeethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafnessthe impossibility the impossibilityNietzsche gone totally madthe impossibility of being humanall too humanthis breathingin and outout and inthese punksthese cowardsthese championsthese mad dogs of glorymoving this little bit of light toward usimpossibly."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""524"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 524,
        ""poem.id"": 524,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For The Foxes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/26/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""525"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 525,
        ""poem.id"": 525,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No help for that"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/27/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""There is a place in the heart thatwill never be filleda spaceand even during thebest momentsandthe greatest timestimeswe will know itwe will know itmore thaneverthere is a place in the heart thatwill never be filledandwe will waitandwaitin that space."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""526"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 526,
        ""poem.id"": 526,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Fire Suicides Of The Buddhists"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'They only burn themselves to reach Paradise'- Mne. Nhuoriginal courage is good,motivation be damned,and if you say they are trainedto feel no pain,are theyguarenteed this?is it still not possibleto die for somebody else?you sophisticateswho lay back andmake statements of explanation,I have seen the red rose burningand this means more."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""527"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 527,
        ""poem.id"": 527,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:21:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/14/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I can see myself now after all these suicide days and nights, being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes (of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky) by a subnormal and bored nurse there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull looking for the mercy of death Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski O, yeah, yeah the children walk past and I don't even exist and lovely women walk by with big hot hips and warm buttocks and tight hot everything praying to be loved and I don't even exist It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days, Mr. Bukowski. Oh, yeah, yeah. there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair, myself whiter than this sheet of paper, bloodless, brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski, gone Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski O, yeah, yeah pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of my mouth. 2 young schoolboys run by — Hey, did you see that old guy Christ, yes, he made me sick! after all the threats to do so somebody else has committed suicide for me at last. the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush, puts it in my hand. I don't even know what it is. it might as well be my pecker for all the good it does."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""528"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 528,
        ""poem.id"": 528,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""air and light and time and space"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/10/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'- you know, I've either had a family, a job, somethinghas always been in thewaybut nowI've sold my house, I've found thisplace, a large studio, you should see the space andthe light.for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place andthe time tocreate.'no baby, if you're going to createyou're going to create whether you work16 hours a day in a coal mineoryou're going to create in a small room with 3 childrenwhile you're onwelfare,you're going to create with part of your mind and yourbody blownaway,you're going to create blindcrippleddemented,you're going to create with a cat crawling up yourback whilethe whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,flood and fire.baby, air and light and time and spacehave nothing to do with itand don't create anythingexcept maybe a longer life to findnew excusesfor."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""529"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 529,
        ""poem.id"": 529,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Cats"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I know. I know.they are limited, have differentneeds andconcerns.but I watch and learn from them.I like the little they know,which is somuch.they complain but neverworry,they walk with a surprising dignity.they sleep with a direct simplicity thathumans just can'tunderstand.their eyes are morebeautiful than our eyes.and they can sleep 20 hoursa daywithouthesitation orremorse.when I am feelinglowall I have to do iswatch my catsand mycouragereturns.I study thesecreatures.they are myteachers."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""530"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 530,
        ""poem.id"": 530,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Trollius And Trellises"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""531"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 531,
        ""poem.id"": 531,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hell Is A Lonely Place"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/9/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""he was 65, his wife was 66, hadAlzheimer's disease.he had cancer of themouth.there wereoperations, radiationtreatmentswhich decayed the bones in hisjawwhich then had to bewired.daily he put his wife inrubber diaperslike ababy.unable to drive in hisconditionhe had to take a taxi tothe medicalcenter,had difficulty speaking,had towrite the directionsdown.on his last visitthey informed himthere would be anotheroperation: a bit moreleftcheek and a bit moretongue.when he returnedhe changed his wife'sdiapersput on the tvdinners, watched theevening newsthen went to the bedroom, got thegun, put it to hertemple, fired.she fell to theleft, he sat upon thecouchput the gun into hismouth, pulled thetrigger.the shots didn't arousethe neighbors.laterthe burning tv dinnersdid.somebody arrived, pushedthe door open, sawit.soonthe police arrived andwent through theirroutine, foundsome items:a closed savingsaccount anda checkbook with abalance of$1.14suicide, theydeduced.in three weeksthere were twonew tenants:a computer engineernamedRossand his wifeAnatanawho studiedballet.they looked like anotherupwardly mobilepair."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""532"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 532,
        ""poem.id"": 532,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Trash Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""533"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 533,
        ""poem.id"": 533,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Japanese Wife"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""534"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 534,
        ""poem.id"": 534,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""German"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""535"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 535,
        ""poem.id"": 535,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Goading The Muse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""536"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 536,
        ""poem.id"": 536,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Am Visited By An Editor And A Poet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""537"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 537,
        ""poem.id"": 537,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So You Want To Be A Writer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/23/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""if it doesn't come bursting out of youin spite of everything,don't do it.unless it comes unasked out of yourheart and your mind and your mouthand your gut,don't do it.if you have to sit for hoursstaring at your computer screenor hunched over yourtypewritersearching for words,don't do it.if you're doing it for money orfame,don't do it.if you're doing it because you wantwomen in your bed,don't do it.if you have to sit there andrewrite it again and again,don't do it.if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,don't do it.if you're trying to write like somebodyelse,forget about it.if you have to wait for it to roar out ofyou,then wait patiently.if it never does roar out of you,do something else.if you first have to read it to your wifeor your girlfriend or your boyfriendor your parents or to anybody at all,you're not ready.don't be like so many writers,don't be like so many thousands ofpeople who call themselves writers,don't be dull and boring andpretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.the libraries of the world haveyawned themselves tosleepover your kind.don't add to that.don't do it.unless it comes out ofyour soul like a rocket,unless being still woulddrive you to madness orsuicide or murder,don't do it.unless the sun inside you isburning your gut,don't do it.when it is truly time,and if you have been chosen,it will do it byitself and it will keep on doing ituntil you die or it dies in you.there is no other way.and there never was."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""538"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 538,
        ""poem.id"": 538,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""New Mexico"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""539"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 539,
        ""poem.id"": 539,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""540"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 540,
        ""poem.id"": 540,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:22:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poem For My 43rd Birthday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""541"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 541,
        ""poem.id"": 541,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Meek Shall Inherit The Earth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""542"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 542,
        ""poem.id"": 542,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The German Hotel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""543"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 543,
        ""poem.id"": 543,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Laughing Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/30/2013"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""544"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 544,
        ""poem.id"": 544,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Magical Mystery Tour"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""545"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 545,
        ""poem.id"": 545,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mama"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""546"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 546,
        ""poem.id"": 546,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crucifix In A Deathhand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""547"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 547,
        ""poem.id"": 547,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Thirty-Six A.M."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""548"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 548,
        ""poem.id"": 548,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Marina"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""549"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 549,
        ""poem.id"": 549,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:23:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Luck"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""550"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 550,
        ""poem.id"": 550,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 05:32:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Small Conversation In The Afternoon With John Fante"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""551"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 551,
        ""poem.id"": 551,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:24:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Show Biz"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""552"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 552,
        ""poem.id"": 552,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:24:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sun Wields Mercy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""553"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 553,
        ""poem.id"": 553,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:24:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Blackbirds Are Rough Today"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""554"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 554,
        ""poem.id"": 554,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:24:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Great Slob"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""555"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 555,
        ""poem.id"": 555,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Oranges"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""556"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 556,
        ""poem.id"": 556,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Short Order"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""557"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 557,
        ""poem.id"": 557,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poetry Reading"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""558"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 558,
        ""poem.id"": 558,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""559"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 559,
        ""poem.id"": 559,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Retreat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""560"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 560,
        ""poem.id"": 560,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hemingway Never Did This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18118"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18118,
        ""poem.id"": 18118,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Revolt In The Ranks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18119"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18119,
        ""poem.id"": 18119,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You . . ."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18120"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18120,
        ""poem.id"": 18120,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rain Or Shine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18121"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18121,
        ""poem.id"": 18121,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Computer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18122"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18122,
        ""poem.id"": 18122,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hooray Say The Roses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18123"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18123,
        ""poem.id"": 18123,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shoelace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/28/2011"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18124"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18124,
        ""poem.id"": 18124,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:19:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18125"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18125,
        ""poem.id"": 18125,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Going Back To The Street After Viewing An Art Show"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18126"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18126,
        ""poem.id"": 18126,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""This"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18127"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18127,
        ""poem.id"": 18127,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Out Of The Arm Of One Love..."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18128"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18128,
        ""poem.id"": 18128,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His Wife, The Painter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18129"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18129,
        ""poem.id"": 18129,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18130"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18130,
        ""poem.id"": 18130,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""True Story"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18131"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18131,
        ""poem.id"": 18131,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Somebody"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18132"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18132,
        ""poem.id"": 18132,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love &Amp; Fame &Amp; Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18133"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18133,
        ""poem.id"": 18133,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here I Am ..."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18134"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18134,
        ""poem.id"": 18134,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Worst And The Best"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18135"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18135,
        ""poem.id"": 18135,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My First Affair With That Older Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18136"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18136,
        ""poem.id"": 18136,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Question And Answer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18137"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18137,
        ""poem.id"": 18137,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:20:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Layover"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18138"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18138,
        ""poem.id"": 18138,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Night I Was Going To Die"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18139"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18139,
        ""poem.id"": 18139,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Trashcan Lives"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18140"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18140,
        ""poem.id"": 18140,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18141"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18141,
        ""poem.id"": 18141,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Icecream People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18142"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18142,
        ""poem.id"": 18142,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Finished?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18143"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18143,
        ""poem.id"": 18143,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No. 6"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18144"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18144,
        ""poem.id"": 18144,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18145"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18145,
        ""poem.id"": 18145,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Can We Do?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18146"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18146,
        ""poem.id"": 18146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poetry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18147"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18147,
        ""poem.id"": 18147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shoes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18148"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18148,
        ""poem.id"": 18148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Working Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18149"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18149,
        ""poem.id"": 18149,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jane Icin (For Jane - In Turkish)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18150"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18150,
        ""poem.id"": 18150,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:21:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eat Your Heart Out"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18151"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18151,
        ""poem.id"": 18151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Paris"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18152"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18152,
        ""poem.id"": 18152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18153"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18153,
        ""poem.id"": 18153,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Young In New Orleans"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""starving there, sitting around the bars,and at night walking the streets forhours,the moonlight always seemed faketo me, maybe it was,and in the French Quarter I watchedthe horses and buggies going by,everybody sitting high in the opencarriages, the black driver, and inback the man and the woman,usually young and always white.and I was always white.and hardly charmed by the world.New Orleans was a place tohide.I could piss away my life,unmolested.except for the rats.the rats in my dark small roomvery much resented sharing itwith me.they were large and fearlessand stared at me with eyesthat spoke an unblinkingdeath.women were beyond me.they saw somethingdepraved.there was one waitressa little older thanI, she rather smiled,lingered when shebrought mycoffee.that was plenty for me, that wasenough.there was something aboutthat city, thoughit didn't let me feel guiltythat I had no feeling for thethings so many othersneeded.it let me alone.sitting up in my bedthe llights out,hearing the outsidesounds,lifting my cheapbottle of wine,letting the warmth ofthe grapeentermeas I heard the rats moving about theroom,I preferred themtohumans.being lost,being crazy maybeis not so badif you can bethat wayundisturbed.New Orleans gave methat.nobody ever calledmy name.no telephone,no car,no job,noanything.me and the ratsand my youth,one time,that timeI kneweven through thenothingness,it was a celebrationof something not todobut onlyknow."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18154"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18154,
        ""poem.id"": 18154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lucky Ones"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18155"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18155,
        ""poem.id"": 18155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18156"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18156,
        ""poem.id"": 18156,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sway With Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18157"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18157,
        ""poem.id"": 18157,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Groupie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18158"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18158,
        ""poem.id"": 18158,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Father"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18159"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18159,
        ""poem.id"": 18159,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What A Writer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18160"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18160,
        ""poem.id"": 18160,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Like Your Books"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18161"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18161,
        ""poem.id"": 18161,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rhyming Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18162"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18162,
        ""poem.id"": 18162,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:22:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Trapped"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18163"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18163,
        ""poem.id"": 18163,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""So Now?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18164"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18164,
        ""poem.id"": 18164,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Melancholia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18165"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18165,
        ""poem.id"": 18165,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was Just A Little While Ago"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18166"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18166,
        ""poem.id"": 18166,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gamblers All"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18167"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18167,
        ""poem.id"": 18167,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Writing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18168"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18168,
        ""poem.id"": 18168,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whats The Use Of A Title?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18169"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18169,
        ""poem.id"": 18169,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hello, How Are You?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18170"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18170,
        ""poem.id"": 18170,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Flophouse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18171"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18171,
        ""poem.id"": 18171,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hot"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""she was hot, she was so hotI didn't want anybody else to have her,and if I didn't get home on timeshe'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-I'd go mad...it was foolish I know, childish,but I was caught in it, I was caught.I delivered all the mailand then Henderson put me on the night pickup runin an old army truck,the damn thing began to heat halfway through the runand the night went onme thinking about my hot Miriamand jumping in and out of the truckfilling mailsacksthe engine continuing to heat upthe temperature needle was at the topHOT HOTlike Miriam.leaped in and out3 more pickups and into the stationI'd be, my carwaiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couchwith scotch on the rockscrossing her legs and swinging her ankleslike she did,2 more stops...the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hellkicking it overagain...I had to be home by 8,8 was the deadline for Miriam.I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal1/2 block from the station...it wouldn't start, it couldn't start...I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the station...I threw the keys down...signed out...your goddamned truck is stalled at the signal,I shouted,Pico and Western......I ran down the hall,put the key into the door,opened it...her drinking glass was there, and a note: sun of a bitch: I waited until 5 after ate you don't love me you sun of a bitch somebody will love me I been wateing all day MiriamI poured a drink and let the water run into the tubthere were 5,000 bars in townand I'd make 25 of themlooking for Miriamher purple teddy bear held the noteas he leaned against a pillowI gave the bear a drink, myself a drinkand got into the hotwater."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18172"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18172,
        ""poem.id"": 18172,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Metamorphosis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18173"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18173,
        ""poem.id"": 18173,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It's Ours"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18174"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18174,
        ""poem.id"": 18174,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Decline"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18175"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18175,
        ""poem.id"": 18175,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:23:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Splash"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18176"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18176,
        ""poem.id"": 18176,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Made A Mistake"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18177"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18177,
        ""poem.id"": 18177,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Finish"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18178"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18178,
        ""poem.id"": 18178,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Curtain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18179"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18179,
        ""poem.id"": 18179,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Crunch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""too much too little too fattoo thinor nobody. laughter ortears haterslovers strangers with faces likethe backs ofthumb tacks armies running throughstreets of bloodwaving winebottlesbayoneting and fuckingvirgins. an old guy in a cheap roomwith a photograph of M. Monroe. there is a loneliness in this world so greatthat you can see it in the slow movement ofthe hands of a clock people so tiredmutilatedeither by love or no love. people just are not good to each otherone on one. the rich are not good to the richthe poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells usthat we can all bebig-ass winners it hasn't told usabout the guttersor the suicides. or the terror of one personaching in one placealone untouchedunspoken to watering a plant. people are not good to each other.people are not good to each other.people are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be.I don't ask them to be. but sometimes I think aboutit. the beads will swingthe clouds will cloudand the killer will behead the childlike taking a bite out of an ice cream cone. too muchtoo little too fattoo thinor nobody more haters than lovers. people are not good to each other.perhaps if they wereour deaths would not be so sad. meanwhile I look at young girlsstemsflowers of chance. there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yetthough of. who put this brain inside of me? it criesit demandsit says that there is a chance. it will not say\"no.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18180"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18180,
        ""poem.id"": 18180,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Aliens"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18181"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18181,
        ""poem.id"": 18181,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""8 Count"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18182"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18182,
        ""poem.id"": 18182,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Some People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18183"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18183,
        ""poem.id"": 18183,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Having The Flu And With Nothing Else To Do"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18184"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18184,
        ""poem.id"": 18184,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""True"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18185"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18185,
        ""poem.id"": 18185,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nirvana"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18186"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18186,
        ""poem.id"": 18186,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""We Ain'T Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18187"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18187,
        ""poem.id"": 18187,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:24:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Is Your Heart?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18188"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18188,
        ""poem.id"": 18188,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""16-Bit Intel 8088 Chip"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18189"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18189,
        ""poem.id"": 18189,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Met A Genius"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18190"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18190,
        ""poem.id"": 18190,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""he lives in a house with a swimming pool and says the job is killing him. he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to get rid of him. his novels keep coming back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams “go to New York and pump the hands of the publishers?” “no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a small room and do the thing.” “but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to go by, some word, some sign!” “some men did not think that way: Van Gogh, Wagner—” “oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him paints whenever he needed them!” “look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and this guy walks in. a salesman. you know how they talk. drove up in this new car. talked about his vacation. said he went to Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who wrote it. now this guy is 54 years old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only opera.’ and then I told him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and you don’t know anything!’” “what happened then?” “I walked out.” “you mean you left him there with her?” “yes.” “I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for this job, he won’t stay so there’s really no sense in hiring him. now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble: you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a job and they look at you and they think: ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire him he’ll stay a long time and work HARD!” “do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a writer, that you write poetry?” “no.” “you never talk about it. not even to me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d have never known.” “that’s right.” “still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a writer.” “I’d still like to tell them.” “why?” “well, they talk about you. they think you are just a horseplayer and a drunk.” “I am both of those.” “well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone. I’m the only friend you have.” “yes.” “they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell them you write poetry.” “leave it alone. I work here like they do. we’re all the same.” “well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why I travel with you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—” “forget it.” “all right, I’ll respect your wishes. but there’s something else—” “what?” “I’ve been thinking about getting a piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a violin too but I can’t make up my mind!” “buy a piano.” “you think so?” “yes.” he walks away thinking about it. I was thinking about it too: I figure he can always come over with his violin and more sad music."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18191"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18191,
        ""poem.id"": 18191,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'M In Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18192"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18192,
        ""poem.id"": 18192,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cut While Shaving"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18193"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18193,
        ""poem.id"": 18193,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pull A String, A Puppet Moves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18194"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18194,
        ""poem.id"": 18194,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yes Yes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18195"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18195,
        ""poem.id"": 18195,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Freedom"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18196"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18196,
        ""poem.id"": 18196,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""2 Flies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/31/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The flies are angry bits of life; why are they so angry?it seems they want more,it seems almost as if theyare angrythat they are flies;it is not my fault;I sit in the roomwith themand they taunt mewith their agony;it is as if they wereloose chunks of soulleft out of somewhere;I try to read a paperbut they will not let mebe;one seems to go in half-circleshigh along the wall,throwing a miserable soundupon my head;the other one, the smaller onestays near and teases my hand,saying nothing,rising, droppingcrawling near;what god puts theselost things upon me?other men suffer dictates ofempire, tragic love…I sufferinsects… I wave at the little onewhich only seems to revivehis impulse to challenge:he circles swifter,nearer, even makinga fly-sound,and one abovecatching a sense of the newwhirling, he too, in excitement,speeds his flight,drops down suddenlyin a cuff of noiseand they joinin circling my hand,strumming the baseof the lampshadeuntil some man-thingin mewill take no moreunholinessand I strikewith the rolled-up-paper -missing! - striking,striking,they break in discord,some message lost between them,and I get the big onefirst, and he kicks on his backflicking his legslike an angry whore,and I come down againwith my paper cluband he is a smearof fly-ugliness;the little one circles highnow, quiet and swift,almost invisible;he does not come nearmy hand again;he is tamed andinaccessible; I leavehim be, he leaves mebe;the paper, of course,is ruined;something has happened,something has soiled myday,sometimes it does nottake manor a woman,only something alive;I sit and watchthe small one;we are woven togetherin the airand the living;it is latefor both of us."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18197"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18197,
        ""poem.id"": 18197,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Jane: With All The Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18198"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18198,
        ""poem.id"": 18198,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:25:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Friends Within The Darkness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18199"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18199,
        ""poem.id"": 18199,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death Wants More Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""death wants more death, and its webs are full:I remember my father's garage, how child-likeI would brush the corpses of fliesfrom the windows they thought were escape-their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodiesshouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glassonly to spin and flitin that second larger than hell or heavenonto the edge of the ledge,and then the spider from his dank holenervous and exposedthe puff of body swellinghanging therenot really quite knowing,and then knowing-something sending it down its string,the wet web,toward the weak shield of buzzing,the pulsing;a last desperate moving hair-legthere against the glassthere alive in the sun,spun in white;and almost like love:the closing over,the first hushed spider-sucking:filling its sack upon this thing that lived;crouching there upon its backdrawing its certain bloodas the world goes by outsideand my temples screamand I hurl the broom against them:the spider dull with spider-angerstill thinking of its preyand waving an amazed broken leg;the fly very still,a dirty speck stranded to straw;I shake the killer looseand he walks lame and peevedtowards some dark cornerbut I intercept his dawdlinghis crawling like some broken hero,and the straws smash his legsnow wavingabove his headand lookinglooking for the enemy and somewhat valiant,dying without apparent painsimply crawling backwardpiece by pieceleaving nothing thereuntil at last the red gut sacksplashesits secrets,and I run child-likewith God's anger a step behind,back to simple sunlight,wonderingas the world goes bywith curled smileif anyone elsesaw or sensed my crime"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18200"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18200,
        ""poem.id"": 18200,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oh Yes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18201"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18201,
        ""poem.id"": 18201,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cows In Art Class"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18202"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18202,
        ""poem.id"": 18202,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18203"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18203,
        ""poem.id"": 18203,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18204"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18204,
        ""poem.id"": 18204,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For Jane"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18205"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18205,
        ""poem.id"": 18205,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Close To Greatness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18206"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18206,
        ""poem.id"": 18206,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Raw With Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18207"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18207,
        ""poem.id"": 18207,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Following"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18208"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18208,
        ""poem.id"": 18208,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Carson Mccullers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18209"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18209,
        ""poem.id"": 18209,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:26:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""40,000"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18210"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18210,
        ""poem.id"": 18210,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Whore Who Took My Poems"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18211"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18211,
        ""poem.id"": 18211,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Big Night On The Town"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18212"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18212,
        ""poem.id"": 18212,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Let It Enfold You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing. I was hard as granite, I leered at the sun. I trusted no man and especially no woman. I was living a hell in small rooms, I broke things, smashed things, walked through glass, cursed. I challenged everything, was continually being evicted, jailed, in and out of fights, in and out of my mind. women were something to screw and rail at, I had no male friends, I changed jobs and cities, I hated holidays, babies, history, newspapers, museums, grandmothers, marriage, movies, spiders, garbagemen, english accents,spain, france,italy,walnuts and the color orange. algebra angred me, opera sickened me, charlie chaplin was a fake and flowers were for pansies. peace and happiness to me were signs of inferiority, tenants of the weak and addled mind. but as I went on with my alley fights, my suicidal years, my passage through any number of women-it gradually began to occur to me that I wasn't different from the others, I was the same, they were all fulsome with hatred, glossed over with petty grievances, the men I fought in alleys had hearts of stone. everybody was nudging, inching, cheating for some insignificant advantage, the lie was the weapon and the plot was empty, darkness was the dictator. cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. the less I needed the better I felt. maybe the other life had worn me down. I no longer found glamour in topping somebody in conversation. or in mounting the body of some poor drunken female whose life had slipped away into sorrow. I could never accept life as it was, i could never gobble down all its poisons but there were parts, tenuous magic parts open for the asking. I re formulated I don't know when, date, time, all that but the change occurred. something in me relaxed, smoothed out. i no longer had to prove that I was a man, I didn't have to prove anything. I began to see things: coffee cups lined up behind a counter in a cafe. or a dog walking along a sidewalk. or the way the mouse on my dresser top stopped there with its body, its ears, its nose, it was fixed, a bit of life caught within itself and its eyes looked at me and they were beautiful. then- it was gone. I began to feel good, I began to feel good in the worst situations and there were plenty of those. like say, the boss behind his desk, he is going to have to fire me. I've missed too many days. he is dressed in a suit, necktie, glasses, he says, 'I am going to have to let you go' 'it's all right' I tell him. He must do what he must do, he has a wife, a house, children, expenses, most probably a girlfriend. I am sorry for him he is caught. I walk onto the blazing sunshine. the whole day is mine temporarily, anyhow. (the whole world is at the throat of the world, everybody feels angry, short-changed, cheated, everybody is despondent, disillusioned) I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness. I embraced that stuff like the hottest number, like high heels, breasts, singing,the works. (don't get me wrong, there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism that overlooks all basic problems just for the sake of itself- this is a shield and a sickness.) The knife got near my throat again, I almost turned on the gas again but when the good moments arrived again I didn't fight them off like an alley adversary. I let them take me, I luxuriated in them, I made them welcome home. I even looked into the mirror once having thought myself to be ugly, I now liked what I saw, almost handsome, yes, a bit ripped and ragged, scares, lumps, odd turns, but all in all, not too bad, almost handsome, better at least than some of those movie star faces like the cheeks of a baby's butt. and finally I discovered real feelings of others, unheralded, like lately, like this morning, as I was leaving, for the track, i saw my wife in bed, just the shape of her head there (not forgetting centuries of the living and the dead and the dying, the pyramids, Mozart dead but his music still there in the room, weeds growing, the earth turning, the tote board waiting for me) I saw the shape of my wife's head, she so still, I ached for her life, just being there under the covers. I kissed her in the forehead, got down the stairway, got outside, got into my marvelous car, fixed the seatbelt, backed out the drive. feeling warm to the fingertips, down to my foot on the gas pedal, I entered the world once more, drove down the hill past the houses full and empty of people, I saw the mailman, honked, he waved back at me."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18213"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18213,
        ""poem.id"": 18213,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Consummation Of Grief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18214"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18214,
        ""poem.id"": 18214,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Genius Of The Crowd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18215"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18215,
        ""poem.id"": 18215,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Back To The Machine Gun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18216"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18216,
        ""poem.id"": 18216,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As The Poems Go"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18217"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18217,
        ""poem.id"": 18217,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Challenge To The Dark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18218"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18218,
        ""poem.id"": 18218,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Radio With Guts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18219"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18219,
        ""poem.id"": 18219,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As The Sparrow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18220"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18220,
        ""poem.id"": 18220,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:27:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Confession"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18221"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18221,
        ""poem.id"": 18221,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cause And Effect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18222"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18222,
        ""poem.id"": 18222,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Are You Drinking?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18223"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18223,
        ""poem.id"": 18223,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Be Kind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18224"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18224,
        ""poem.id"": 18224,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Almost Made Up Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18225"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18225,
        ""poem.id"": 18225,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""And The Moon And The Stars And The World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18226"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18226,
        ""poem.id"": 18226,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bluebird"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18227"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18227,
        ""poem.id"": 18227,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alone With Everybody"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    },
    ""18228"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18228,
        ""poem.id"": 18228,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Smile To Remember"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Charles Bukowski""
    }
}"
15,"2018-02-28 20:34:22","Sylvia Plath","{
    ""561"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 561,
        ""poem.id"": 561,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Circus in Three Rings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/29/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In the circus tent of a hurricanedesigned by a drunken godmy extravagant heart blows up againin a rampage of champagne-colored rainand the fragments whir like a weather vanewhile the angels all applaud.Daring as death and debonairI invade my lion's den;a rose of jeopardy flames in my hairyet I flourish my whip with a fatal flairdefending my perilous wounds with a chairwhile the gnawings of love begin.Mocking as Mephistopheles,eclipsed by magician's disguise,my demon of doom tilts on a trapeze,winged rabbits revolving about his knees,only to vanish with devilish easein a smoke that sears my eyes."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""562"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 562,
        ""poem.id"": 562,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Midas' Country"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""563"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 563,
        ""poem.id"": 563,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""New Year On Dartmoor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""564"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 564,
        ""poem.id"": 564,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Deck"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""565"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 565,
        ""poem.id"": 565,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Net-Menders"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""566"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 566,
        ""poem.id"": 566,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brasilia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""567"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 567,
        ""poem.id"": 567,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:25:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Great Carbuncle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""568"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 568,
        ""poem.id"": 568,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Event"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""569"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 569,
        ""poem.id"": 569,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shrike"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""570"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 570,
        ""poem.id"": 570,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Burnt-Out Spa"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""571"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 571,
        ""poem.id"": 571,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yaddo : The Grand Manor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""572"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 572,
        ""poem.id"": 572,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Doom Of Exiles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""573"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 573,
        ""poem.id"": 573,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mussel Hunter At Rock Harbor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I came before the water —-Colorists came to get theGood of the Cape light that scoursSand grit to sided crystalAnd buffs and sleeks the blunt hullsOf the three fishing smacks beachedOn the bank of the river'sBacktracking tail. I'd come forFree fish-bait: the blue musselsClumped like bulbs at the grassrootMargin of the tidal pools.Dawn tide stood dead low. I smeltMud stench, shell guts, gulls' leavings;Heard a queer crusty scrabbleCease, and I neared the silencedEdge of a cratered pool-bed.The mussels hung dull blue andConspicuous, yet it seemedA sly world's hinges had swungShut against me. All held still.Though I counted scant seconds,Enough ages lapsed to winConfidence of safe-conductIn the wary other worldEyeing me. Grass put forth claws,Small mud knobs, nudged from under,Displaced their domes as tinyKnights might doff their casques. The crabsInched from their pygmy burrowsAnd from the trench-dug mud, all Camouflaged in mottled mailOf browns and greens. Each wore oneClaw swollen to a shield largeAs itself—no fiddler's armGrown Gargantuan by trade,But grown grimly, and grimlyBorne, for a use beyond myGuessing of it. SibilantMass-motived hordes, they sidledOut in a converging streamToward the pool-mouth, perhaps toMeet the thin and sluggish threadOf sea retracing its tide-Way up the river-basin.Or to avoid me. They movedObliquely with a dry-wetSound, with a glittery wispAnd trickle. Could they feel mudPleasurable under clawsAs I could between bare toes?That question ended it—IStood shut out, for once, for all,Puzzling the passage of theirAbsolutely alienOrder as I might puzzleAt the clear tail of Halley'sComet coolly giving myOrbit the go-by, made knownBy a family name itKnew nothing of. So the crabsWent about their business, whichWasn't fiddling, and I filledA big handkerchief with blueMussels. From what the crabs saw,If they could see, I was oneTwo-legged mussel-picker.High on the airy thatchingOf the dense grasses I foundThe husk of a fiddler-crab,Intact, strangely strayed aboveHis world of mud—green colorAnd innards bleached out blown offSomewhere by much sun and wind;There was no telling if he'dDied recluse of suicideOr headstrong Columbus crab.The crab-face, etched and set there,Grimaced as skulls grimace: itHad an Oriental look,A samurai death mask doneOn a tiger tooth, less forArt's sake than God's. Far from sea —-Where red-freckled crab-backs, clawsAnd whole crabs, dead, their soggyBellies pallid and upturned,Perform their shambling waltzesOn the waves' dissolving turnAnd return, losing themselvesBit by bit to their friendlyElement—this relic savedFace, to face the bald-faced sun."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""574"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 574,
        ""poem.id"": 574,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Aquatic Nocturne"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""575"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 575,
        ""poem.id"": 575,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""April Aubade"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""576"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 576,
        ""poem.id"": 576,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maudlin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""577"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 577,
        ""poem.id"": 577,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ravaged Face"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""578"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 578,
        ""poem.id"": 578,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Departure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""579"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 579,
        ""poem.id"": 579,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:26:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spider"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Anansi, black busybody of the folktales,You scuttle out on impulseBlunt in self-interestAs a sledge hammer, as a man's bunched fist,Yet of devils the cleverestTo get your carousals told:You spun the cosmic web: you squint from center field.Last summer I came upon your Spanish cousin,Notable robber baron,Behind a goatherd's hut:Near his small stonehenge above the ants' route,One-third ant-size, a leggy spot,He tripped an ant with a ropeScarcely visible. About and about the slopeOf his redoubt he ran his nimble filament,Each time round winding that antTighter to the cocoonAlready veiling the gray spool of stoneFrom which coils, caught ants waved legs inTorpid warning, or lay stillAnd suffered their livelier fellows to struggle.Then briskly scaled his altar tiered with tethered ants,Nodding in a somnolenceAppalling to witness,To the barbarous outlook, from there choseHis next martyr to the gross causeOf concupiscence. Once moreWith black alacrity bound round his prisoner.The ants—a file of comers, a file of goers—Persevered on a set courseNo scruple could disrupt,Obeying orders of instinct till sweptOff-stage and infamously wrappedUp by a spry black deusEx machina. Nor did they seem deterred by this."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""580"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 580,
        ""poem.id"": 580,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Sorcerer Bids Farewell To Seem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""581"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 581,
        ""poem.id"": 581,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lady And The Earthenware Head"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""582"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 582,
        ""poem.id"": 582,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tour"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O maiden aunt, you have come to call.Do step into the hall!With your boldGecko, the little flick!All cogs, weird sparkle and every cog solid gold.And I in slippers and housedress with no lipstick!And you want to be shown about!Yes, yes, this is my address.Not a patch on your place, I guess, with the JavaneseGeese and the monkey trees.It's a bit burnt-out,A bit of a wild machine, a bit of a mess!O I shouldn't put my finger in thatAuntie, it might bite!That's my frost box, no cat,Though it looks like a cat, with its fluffy stuff, pure white.You should see the objects it makes!Millions of needly glass cakes!Fine for the migraine or the bellyache. And thisIs where I kept the furnace,Each coal a hot cross-stitch—a lovely light!It simply exploded one night,It went up in smoke.And that's why I have no hair, auntie, that's why I chokeOff and on, as if I just had to retch.Coal gas is ghastly stuff.Here's a spot I thought you'd love—Morning Glory Pool!The blue's a jewel.It boils for forty hours at a stretch.O I shouldn't dip my hankie in, it hurts!Last summer, my God, last summerIt ate seven maids and a plumberAnd returned them steamed and pressed and stiff as shirts.I am bitter? I'm averse?Here's your specs, dear, here's your purse.Toddle on home to tea now in your flat hat.It'll be lemon tea for me,Lemon tea and earwig biscuits—creepy-creepy.You'd not want that.Toddle on home, before the weather's worse.Toddle on home, and don't trip on the nurse!—She may be bald, she may have no eyes,But auntie, she's awfully nice.She's pink, she's a born midwife—She can bring the dead to lifeWith her wiggly fingers and for a very small fee.Well I hope you've enjoyed it, auntie!Toddle on home to tea!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""583"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 583,
        ""poem.id"": 583,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hardcastle Crags"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Flintlike, her feet struckSuch a racket of echoes from the steely street,Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the blackStone-built town, that she heard the quick air igniteIts tinder and shakeA firework of echoes from wallTo wall of the dark, dwarfed cottages.But the echoes died at her back as the wallsGave way to fields and the incessant seethe of grassesRiding in the fullOf the moon, manes to the wind,Tireless, tied, as a moon-bound seaMoves on its root. Though a mist-wraith woundUp from the fissured valley and hung shoulder-highAhead, it fattenedTo no family-featured ghost,Nor did any word body with a nameThe blank mood she walked in. Once pastThe dream-peopled village, her eyes entertained no dream,And the sandman's dustLost luster under her footsoles.The long wind, paring her person downTo a pinch of flame, blew its burdened whistleIn the whorl of her ear, and like a scooped-out pumpkin crownHer head cupped the babel.All the night gave her, in returnFor the paltry gift of her bulk and the beatOf her heart was the humped indifferent ironOf its hills, and its pastures bordered by black stone setOn black stone. BarnsGuarded broods and littersBehind shut doors; the dairy herdsKnelt in the meadow mute as boulders;Sheep drowsed stoneward in their tussocks of wool, and birds,Twig-sleep, woreGranite ruffs, their shadowsThe guise of leaves. The whole landscapeLoomed absolute as the antique world wasOnce in its earliest sway of lymph and sap,Unaltered by eyes,Enough to snuff the quickOf her small heat out, but before the weightOf stones and hills of stones could breakHer down to mere quartz grit n that stony lightShe turned back."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""584"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 584,
        ""poem.id"": 584,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Flute Notes From A Reedy Pond"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""585"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 585,
        ""poem.id"": 585,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whitsun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""586"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 586,
        ""poem.id"": 586,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode For Ted"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""587"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 587,
        ""poem.id"": 587,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Battle-Scene From The Comic Operatic Fantasy The Seafarer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""588"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 588,
        ""poem.id"": 588,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dirge For A Joker"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""589"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 589,
        ""poem.id"": 589,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Denouement Villanelle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""590"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 590,
        ""poem.id"": 590,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gold Mouths Cry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""591"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 591,
        ""poem.id"": 591,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Alicante Lullaby"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""592"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 592,
        ""poem.id"": 592,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Terminal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""593"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 593,
        ""poem.id"": 593,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:27:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Natural History"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""594"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 594,
        ""poem.id"": 594,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stars Over The Dordogne"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggyPicket of trees whose silhouette is darkerThan the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.Nor do they send up fires where they fallOr any signal of distress or anxiousness.They are eaten immediately by the pines.Where I am at home, only the sparsest starsArrive at twilight, and then after some effort.And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.The smaller and more timid never arrive at allBut stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.The Big Dipper is my only familiar.I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they areHanging shyly under the studded horizonLike a child's too-simple mathematical problem.Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.Or else they are present, and their disguise so brightI am overlooking them by looking too hard.Perhaps it is the season that is not right.And what if the sky here is no different,And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.The few I am used to are plain and durable;I think they would not wish for this dressy backclothOr much company, or the mildness of the south.They are too puritan and solitary for that—When one of them falls it leaves a space,A sense of absence in its old shining place.And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,I see those constellations in my head,Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bellIs accounting for its cow. I shut my eyesAnd drink the small night chill like news of home."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""595"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 595,
        ""poem.id"": 595,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Miss Drake Proceeds To Supper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""596"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 596,
        ""poem.id"": 596,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Childless Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""597"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 597,
        ""poem.id"": 597,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yadwigha, On A Red Couch, Among Lillies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Yadwigha, the literalists once wondered how youCame to be lying on this baroque couchUpholstered in red velvet, under the eyeOf uncaged tigers and a tropical moon,Set in intricate wilderness of greenHeart-shaped leaves, like catalpa leaves, and lilliesOf monstrous size, like no well-bred liliesIt seems teh consistent critics wanted youTo choose between your world of jungle greenAnd the fashionable monde of the red couchWith its prim bric-à-brac, without a moonTo turn you luminous, without the eyeOf tigers to be stilled by your dark eyeAnd body whiter than its frill of lilies:They'd have had yellow silk screening the moon,Leaves and lilies flattened to paper behind youOr, at most, to a mille-fleurs tapestry. But the couchStood stubborn in it's jungle: red against green,Red against fifty variants of green,The couch glared out at the prosaic eye.So Rousseau, to explain why the red couchPersisted in the picture with the lilies,Tigers, snakes, and the snakecharmer and you,And birds of paradise, and the round moon,Described how you fell dreaming at full of moonOn a red velvet couch within your green-Tessellared boudoir. Hearing flutes, youDreamed yourself away in the moon's eyeTo a beryl jungle, and dreamed that bright moon-liliesNodded their petaled heads around your couch.And that, Rousseau told the critics, was why the couchAccompanied you. So they nodded at the couch with the moonAnd the snakecharmer's song and the gigantic lilies,Marvelingly numbered the many shades of green.But to a friend, in private, Rousseau confessed his eyeSo possessed by the glowing red of the couch which you,Yadwigha, pose on, that he put you on the couchTo feed his eye with red, such red! under the moon,In the midst of all that green and those great lilies!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""598"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 598,
        ""poem.id"": 598,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Notes To A Neophyte"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""599"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 599,
        ""poem.id"": 599,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Blue Moles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""600"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 600,
        ""poem.id"": 600,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Princess And The Goblins"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/28/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""From fabrication springs the spiral stairup which the wakeful princess climbs to findthe source of blanching light that conjured herto leave her bed of fever and ascenda visionary ladder toward the moonwhose holy blue anoints her injured hand.With finger bandaged where the waspish pinflew from the intricate embroideryand stung according to the witch's plan,she mounts through malice of the needle's eye,trailing her scrupulously simple gownalong bright asterisks by milky way.Colonnades of angels nod her inwhere ancient, infinite, and beautiful,her legendary godmother leans down,spinning a single stubborn thread of woolwhich all the artful wizards cannot crimpto keep the young girl from her crowning goal.Initiated by the lunar lamp,kindling her within a steepled flame,the princess hears the thunder and the pompof squadrons underground abducting himwho is the destination of the cordnow bound around her wrist till she redeemthis miner's boy from goblin bodyguard.Guided only by the tug and twitchof that mercurial strand, the girl goes downthe darkening stair, undoes the palace latchand slips unseen past watchmen on the lawndozing around their silvered sentry box.Across the frosted grass she marks the sheenof thread conducting her to the worn tracksmade by miners up the mountainsideamong the jagged mazes of the rocks.Laboring on the tilt of that steep gradebehind which the declining moon has set,she recalls queer stories her nurse readabout a goblin raid on miner's hutbecause new excavations came too nearthe chambers where their fiendish queen would sit.Hearing a weird cackle from afar,she clutches at the talismanic cordand confronts a cairn of iron ore.Suddenly a brazen song is heardfrom the pragmatic boy confined within,gaily cursing the whole goblin horde.Inviolate in the circle of that skein,looping like faith about her bleeding feet,the princess frees the miner, stone by stone,and leads him home to be her chosen knight.The princess coaxes the incredulous boythrough candid kitchens in the rising sunto seek the staircase by the glare of day.Hand in hand, they scale meridian,clambering up the creaking heights of heatuntil she hears the twittering machinewhich quaintly wove the fabric of her fatebehind the zodiac on attic doorwith abracadabra from the alphabet.Pointing toward the spindle's cryptic whir,she tells the greenhorn miner to bow downand honor the great goddess of the airsuspended aloft within her planet-shine.Laughing aloud, the dazzled boy demandswhy he should kneel before a silly scenewhere pigeons promenade the gable-endsand coo quadrilles about the blighted corein a batch of raveled apple rinds.At his words, the indignant godmothervanishes in a labyrinth of haywhile sunlight winds its yarn upon the floor.O never again will the extravagant strawknit up a gilded fable for the childwho weeps before the desolate tableauof clockwork that makes the royal blood run cold."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18269"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18269,
        ""poem.id"": 18269,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Manor Garden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18270"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18270,
        ""poem.id"": 18270,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Letter To A Purist"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18271"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18271,
        ""poem.id"": 18271,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Glutton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18272"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18272,
        ""poem.id"": 18272,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Companionable Ills"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18273"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18273,
        ""poem.id"": 18273,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:28:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Detective"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""What was she doing when it blew inOver the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain?Was she arranging cups? It is important.Was she at the window, listening?In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.That is the valley of death, though the cows thrive.In her garden the lies were shaking out their moist silksAnd the eyes of the killer moving sluglike and sidelong,Unable to face the fingers, those egotists.The fingers were tamping a woman into a wall,A body into a pipe, and the smoke rising.This is the smell of years burning, here in the kitchen,These are the deceits, tacked up like family photographs,And this is a man, look at his smile,The death weapon? No one is dead.There is no body in the house at all.There is the smell of polish, there are plush carpets.There is the sunlight, playing its blades,Bored hoodlum in a red roomWhere the wireless talks to itself like an elderly relative.Did it come like an arrow, did it come like a knife?Which of the poisons is it?Which of the nerve-curlers, the convulsors? Did it electrify?This is a case without a body.The body does not come into it at all.It is a case of vaporization.The mouth first, its absence reportedIn the second year. It had been insatiableAnd in punishment was hung out like brown fruitTo wrinkle and dry.The breasts next.These were harder, two white stones.The milk came yellow, then blue and sweet as water.There was no absence of lips, there were two children,But their bones showed, and the moon smiled.Then the dry wood, the gates,The brown motherly furrows, the whole estate.We walk on air, Watson.There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18274"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18274,
        ""poem.id"": 18274,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Célibataire'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18275"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18275,
        ""poem.id"": 18275,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Green Rock, Winthrop Bay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18276"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18276,
        ""poem.id"": 18276,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Difficulty Of Conjuring Up A Dryad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18277"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18277,
        ""poem.id"": 18277,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maenad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18278"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18278,
        ""poem.id"": 18278,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rhyme"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18279"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18279,
        ""poem.id"": 18279,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fearful"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18280"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18280,
        ""poem.id"": 18280,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Recantation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18281"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18281,
        ""poem.id"": 18281,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Private Ground"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18282"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18282,
        ""poem.id"": 18282,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fable Of The Rhododendron Stealers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18283"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18283,
        ""poem.id"": 18283,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:29:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Babysitters"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,In the two, huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,And the seven-year-old wouldn't go out unless his jersey stripesMatched the stripes of his socks.Or it was richness! —- eleven rooms and a yachtWith a polished mahogany stair to let into the waterAnd a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.But I didn't know how to cook, and babies depressed me.Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers redWith triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruisesThey left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, 'for protection,'And a small Dalmation.In your house, the main house, you were better off.You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shopAnd a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.I remember you playing 'Ja-Da' in a pink piqué dressOn the game-room piano, when the 'big people' were out,And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green shaded lamp.The cook had one walleye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookiesTill she was fired.O what has come over us, my sister!On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to getWe lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups' iceboxAnd rented an old green boat. I rowed. You readAloud, cross-legged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted —-A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughingBut ten years dead.The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,And from our opposite continents we wave and call.Everything has happened."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18284"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18284,
        ""poem.id"": 18284,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Snowman On The Moor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Stalemated their armies stood, with tottering banners:She flung from a roomStill ringing with bruit of insults and dishonorsAnd in fury left himGlowering at the coal-fire: ‘Come find me'—her last taunt.He did not comeBut sat on, guarding his grim battlement.By the doorstepHer winter-beheaded daisies, marrowless, gaunt,Warned her to keepIndoors with politic goodwill, not hasteInto a landscapeOf stark wind-harrowed hills and weltering mist;But from the houseShe stalked intractable as a driven ghostAcross moor snowsPocked by rock-claw and rabbit-track: she must yet winHim to his knees—Let him send police and hounds to bring her in.Nursing her rageThrough bare whistling heather, over stiles of black stone,To the world's white edgeShe came, and called hell to subdue an unruly manAnd join her siege.It was no fire-blurting fork-tailed demonVolcanoed hotFrom marble snow-heap of moor to ride that womanWith spur and knoutDown from pride's size: instead, a grisly-thewed,Austere, corpse-whiteGiant heaved into the distance, stone-hatcheted,Sky-high, and snowFloured his whirling beard, and at his treadAmbushed birds byDozens dropped dead in the hedges: o she feltNo love in his eye,Worse—saw dangling from that spike-studded beltLadies' sheaved skulls:Mournfully the dry tongues clacked their guilt:‘Our wit made foolsOf kings, unmanned kings' sons: our masteriesAmused court halls:For that brag, we barnacle these iron thighs.'Throned in the thickOf a blizzard, the giant roared up with his chittering trophies.From brunt of axe-crackShe shied sideways: a white fizz! and the giant, pursuing,Crumbled to smoke.Humbled then, and crying,The girl bent homeward, brimful of gentle talkAnd mild obeying."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18285"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18285,
        ""poem.id"": 18285,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dark House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18286"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18286,
        ""poem.id"": 18286,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rabbit Catcher"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18287"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18287,
        ""poem.id"": 18287,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Words Heard, By Accident, Over The Phone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18288"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18288,
        ""poem.id"": 18288,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Owl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18289"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18289,
        ""poem.id"": 18289,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song For A Summer's Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18290"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18290,
        ""poem.id"": 18290,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Beast"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18291"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18291,
        ""poem.id"": 18291,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Times Are Tidy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18292"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18292,
        ""poem.id"": 18292,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Channel Crossing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul;With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt shipCleaves forward into fury; dark as anger,Waves wallop, assaulting the stubborn hull.Flayed by spray, we take the challenge up,Grip the rail, squint ahead, and wonder how much longerSuch force can last; but beyond, the neutral viewShows, rank on rank, the hungry seas advancing.Below, rocked havoc-sick, voyagers lieRetching in bright orange basins; a refugeeSprawls, hunched in black, among baggage, wincingUnder the strict mask of his agony.Far from the sweet stench of that perilous airIn which our comrades are betrayed, we freezeAnd marvel at the smashing nonchalanceOf nature : what better way to test taut fiberThan against this onslaught, these casual blasts of iceThat wrestle with us like angels; the mere chanceOf making harbor through this racketing fluxTaunts us to valor. Blue sailors sang that our journeyWould be full of sun, white gulls, and water drenchedWith radiance, peacock-colored; instead, bleak rocksJutted early to mark our going, while skyCurded over with clouds and chalk cliffs blanchedIn sullen light of the inauspicious day.Now, free, by hazard's quirk, from the common illKnocking our brothers down, we strike a stanceMost mock-heroic, to cloak our waking aweAt this rare rumpus which no man can control :Meek and proud both fall; stark violenceLays all walls waste; private estates are torn,Ransacked in the public eye. We forsakeOur lone luck now, compelled by bond, by blood,To keep some unsaid pact; perhaps concernIs helpless here, quite extra, yet we must makeThe gesture, bend and hold the prone man's head.And so we sail toward cities, streets and homesOf other men, where statues celebrateBrave acts played out in peace, in war; all dangersEnd : green shores appear; we assume our names,Our luggage, as docks halt our brief epic; no debtSurvives arrival; we walk the plank with strangers."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18293"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18293,
        ""poem.id"": 18293,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Black Pine Tree In An Orange Light"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18294"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18294,
        ""poem.id"": 18294,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hanging Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18295"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18295,
        ""poem.id"": 18295,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:30:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Magnolia Shoals"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18296"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18296,
        ""poem.id"": 18296,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Point Shirley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18297"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18297,
        ""poem.id"": 18297,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Goring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18298"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18298,
        ""poem.id"": 18298,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Who"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18299"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18299,
        ""poem.id"": 18299,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hermit At Outermost House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18300"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18300,
        ""poem.id"": 18300,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Doomsday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18301"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18301,
        ""poem.id"": 18301,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bluebeard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18302"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18302,
        ""poem.id"": 18302,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Man In Black"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18303"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18303,
        ""poem.id"": 18303,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Finisterre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""This was the land's end: the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,Cramped on nothing. BlackAdmonitory cliffs, and the sea explodingWith no bottom, or anything on the other side of it,Whitened by the faces of the drowned.Now it is only gloomy, a dump of rocks —-Leftover soldiers from old, messy wars.The sea cannons into their ear, but they don't budge.Other rocks hide their grudges under the water.The cliffs are edged with trefoils, stars and bellsSuch as fingers might embroider, close to death,Almost too small for the mists to bother with.The mists are part of the ancient paraphernalia —-Souls, rolled in the doom-noise of the sea.They bruise the rocks out of existence, then resurrect them.They go up without hope, like sighs.I walk among them, and they stuff my mouth with cotton.When they free me, I am beaded with tears.Our Lady of the Shipwrecked is striding toward the horizon,Her marble skirts blown back in two pink wings.A marble sailor kneels at her foot distractedly, and at his footA peasant woman in blackIs praying to the monument of the sailor praying.Our Lady of the Shipwrecked is three times life size,Her lips sweet with divinity.She does not hear what the sailor or the peasant is saying —-She is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the sea.Gull-colored laces flap in the sea draftsBeside the postcard stalls.The peasants anchor them with conches. One is told:'These are the pretty trinkets the sea hides,Little shells made up into necklaces and toy ladies.They do not come from the Bay of the Dead down there,But from another place, tropical and blue,We have never been to.These are our crêpes. Eat them before they blow cold.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18304"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18304,
        ""poem.id"": 18304,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Parliament Hill Fields"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""On this bald hill the new year hones its edge.Faceless and pale as chinaThe round sky goes on minding its business.Your absence is inconspicuous;Nobody can tell what I lack.Gulls have threaded the river's mud bed backTo this crest of grass. Inland, they argue,Settling and stirring like blown paperOr the hands of an invalid. The wanSun manages to strike such tin glintsFrom the linked ponds that my eyes winceAnd brim; the city melts like sugar.A crocodile of small girlsKnotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms,Opens to swallow me. I'm a stone, a stick,One child drops a barrette of pink plastic;None of them seem to notice.Their shrill, gravelly gossip's funneled off.Now silence after silence offers itself.The wind stops my breath like a bandage.Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudgeSwaddles roof and tree.It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank.I suppose it's pointless to think of you at all.Already your doll grip lets go.The tumulus, even at noon, guards its black shadow:You know me less constant,Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird.I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy.These faithful dark-boughed cypressesBrood, rooted in their heaped losses.Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat.I lose sight of you on your blind journey,While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivuletsUnspool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them,Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem.The day empties its imagesLike a cup or a room. The moon's crook whitens,Thin as the skin seaming a scar.Now, on the nursery wall,The blue night plants, the little pale blue hillIn your sister's birthday picture start to glow.The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrusLight up. Each rabbit-earedBlue shrub behind the glassExhales an indigo nimbus,A sort of cellophane balloon.The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife.Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light;I enter the lit house."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18305"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18305,
        ""poem.id"": 18305,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stopped Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18306"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18306,
        ""poem.id"": 18306,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Watercolor Of Grantchester Meadows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18307"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18307,
        ""poem.id"": 18307,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Eavesdropper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your brother will trim my hedges!They darken your house,Nosy grower,Mole on my shoulder,To be scratched absently,To bleed, if it comes to that.The stain of the tropicsStill urinous on you, a sin.A kind of bush-stink.You may be local,But that yellow!Godawful!Your body oneLong nicotine-fingerOn which I,White cigarette,Burn, for your inhalation,Driving the dull cells wild.Let me roost in you!My distractions, my pallors.Let them start the queer alchemyThat melts the skinGray tallow, from bone and bone.So I saw your much sickerPredecessor wrapped up,A six and a half foot wedding-cake.And he was not even malicious.Do not think I don't notice your curtain—Midnight, four o'clock,Lit (you are reading),Tarting with the drafts that pass,Little **** tongue,Chenille beckoner,Beckoning my words in—The zoo yowl, the mad softMirror talk you love to catch me at.How you jumped when I jumped on you!Arms folded, ear cocked,Toad-yellow under the dropThat would not, would not dropIn a desert of cow peopleTrundling their udders homeTo the electric milker, the wifey, the big blue eyeThat watches, like God, or the skyThe ciphers that watch it.I called.You crawled out,A weather figure, boggling,Belge troll, the lowChurch smileSpreading itself, like butter.This is what I am in for—Flea body!Eyes like miceFlicking over my property,Levering letter flaps,Scrutinizing the flyOf the man's pantsDead on the chair back,Opening the fat smiles, the eyesOf two babiesJust to make sure—Toad-stone! Sister-****! Sweet neighbor!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18308"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18308,
        ""poem.id"": 18308,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:31:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memoirs Of A Spinach-Picker"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18309"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18309,
        ""poem.id"": 18309,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gulliver"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18310"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18310,
        ""poem.id"": 18310,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thalidomide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18311"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18311,
        ""poem.id"": 18311,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Frog Autumn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/6/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings dissipate in somnolence. The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. he fen sickens. Frost drops even the spider. Clearly The genius of plenitude Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin Lamentably."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18312"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18312,
        ""poem.id"": 18312,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Surgeon At 2 A.M."",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The white light is artificial, and hygienic as heaven.The microbes cannot survive it.They are departing in their transparent garments, turned asideFrom the scalpels and the rubber hands.The scalded sheet is a snowfield, frozen and peaceful.The body under it is in my hands.As usual there is no face. A lump of Chinese whiteWith seven holes thumbed in. The soul is another light.I have not seen it; it does not fly up.Tonight it has receded like a ship's light.It is a garden I have to do with —- tubers and fruitOozing their jammy substances,A mat of roots. My assistants hook them back.Stenches and colors assail me.This is the lung-tree.These orchids are splendid. They spot and coil like snakes.The heart is a red bell-bloom, in distress.I am so smallIn comparison to these organs!I worm and hack in a purple wilderness.The blood is a sunset. I admire it.I am up to my elbows in it, red and squeaking.Still is seeps me up, it is not exhausted.So magical! A hot springI must seal off and let fillThe intricate, blue piping under this pale marble.How I admire the Romans —-Aqeducts, the Baths of Caracella, the eagle nose!The body is a Roman thing.It has shut its mouth on the stone pill of repose.It is a statue the orderlies are wheeling off.I have perfected it.I am left with and arm or a leg,A set of teeth, or stonesTo rattle in a bottle and take home,And tissues in slices—a pathological salami.Tonight the parts are entombed in an icebox.Tomorrow they will swimIn vinegar like saints' relics.Tomorrow the patient will have a clean, pink plastic limb.Over one bed in the ward, a small blue lightAnnounces a new soul. The bed is blue.Tonight, for this person, blue is a beautiful color.The angels of morphia have borne him up.He floats an inch from the ceiling,Smelling the dawn drafts.I walk among sleepers in gauze sarcophagi.The red night lights are flat moons. They are dull with blood.I am the sun, in my white coat,Grey faces, shuttered by drugs, follow me like flowers."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18313"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18313,
        ""poem.id"": 18313,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Everlasting Monday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18314"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18314,
        ""poem.id"": 18314,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Medallion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18315"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18315,
        ""poem.id"": 18315,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Want, I Want"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18316"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18316,
        ""poem.id"": 18316,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pheasant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18317"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18317,
        ""poem.id"": 18317,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Death Of Myth-Making"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18318"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18318,
        ""poem.id"": 18318,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mary's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18319"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18319,
        ""poem.id"": 18319,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Eva Descending The Stair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18320"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18320,
        ""poem.id"": 18320,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:32:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dark Wood, Dark Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18321"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18321,
        ""poem.id"": 18321,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heavy Woman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18322"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18322,
        ""poem.id"": 18322,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Trial Of A Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18323"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18323,
        ""poem.id"": 18323,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Suicide Off Egg Rock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18324"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18324,
        ""poem.id"": 18324,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Witch Burning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18325"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18325,
        ""poem.id"": 18325,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ghost's Leavetaking"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Enter the chilly no-man's land of aboutFive o'clock in the morning, the no-color voidWhere the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lotOf sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrumsWhich seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,Gets ready to face the ready-made creationOf chairs and bureaus and sleep-twisted sheets.This is the kingdom of the fading apparition,The oracular ghost who dwindles on pin-legsTo a knot of laundry, with a classic bunch of sheetsUpraised, as a hand, emblematic of farewell.At this joint between two worlds and two entirelyIncompatible modes of time, the raw materialOf our meat-and-potato thoughts assumes the nimbusOf ambrosial revelation. And so departs.Chair and bureau are the hieroglyphsOf some godly utterance wakened heads ignore:So these posed sheets, before they thin to nothing,Speak in sign language of a lost otherworld,A world we lose by merely waking up.Trailing its telltale tatters only at the outermostFringe of mundane vision, this ghost goesHand aloft, goodbye, goodbye, not downInto the rocky gizzard of the earth,But toward a region where our thick atmosphereDiminishes, and God knows what is there.A point of exclamation marks that skyIn ringing orange like a stellar carrot.Its round period, displaced and green,Suspends beside it the first point, the startingPoint of Eden, next the new moon's curve.Go, ghost of our mother and father, ghost of us,And ghost of our dreams' children, in those sheetsWhich signify our origin and end,To the cloud-cuckoo land of color wheelsAnd pristine alphabets and cows that mooAnd moo as they jump over moons as newAs that crisp cusp toward which you voyage now.Hail and farewell. Hello, goodbye. O keeperOf the profane grail, the dreaming skull."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18326"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18326,
        ""poem.id"": 18326,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Beekeeper's Daughter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18327"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18327,
        ""poem.id"": 18327,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sleepers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18328"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18328,
        ""poem.id"": 18328,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Little Fugue"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18329"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18329,
        ""poem.id"": 18329,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Winter Ship"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18330"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18330,
        ""poem.id"": 18330,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Child's Park Stones"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18331"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18331,
        ""poem.id"": 18331,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Firesong"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18332"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18332,
        ""poem.id"": 18332,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Family Reunion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18333"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18333,
        ""poem.id"": 18333,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verbal Calisthenics"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18334"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18334,
        ""poem.id"": 18334,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:33:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet : To Eva"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18335"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18335,
        ""poem.id"": 18335,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ouija"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18336"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18336,
        ""poem.id"": 18336,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crystal Gazer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Gerd sits spindle-shaped in her dark tent,Lean face gone tawn with seasons ,Skin worn down to the knucklebonesAt her tough trade; without time's taintThe burnished ball hangs fire in her hands, a lensFusing time's three horizons.Two enter to tap her sight, a green pairFresh leaved out in vows: 'Come tellHow we shall do together,Well or ill.' Gerd slants a look at each: most dear,Each to the other; fit fiber for stern weather.Slowly she spins the ball:'I see two stalwart apple treesCoupled by branches intertwinedAnd, springing all about,Staunch saplings; to this house, thriving daysWill bring crop's increase, and harvest fruitFollow on kind wind.''No hardship then?' he asks. 'We'll takeWhatever trial's to come, so say true.'His bride echoes his word. At that,Gerd whirls the ball ablaze: 'Rough storm,' she grunts, ' may wreakSome havoc on tender limb, and yetStrengthen that orchard thereby.'Their small price paid, these wedded onesWalk forth into sun-moneyed air, quickenedTo savor their span of flourishing.Aloof, squatting mummy-wise, Gerd scansThat clairvoyant quartz which once, at her own wishing,Exacted her first simple sight for this strict second.Then, a free-gadding hoyden, Gerd had cravedTo govern more sight than given to a womanBy wits alone: to foresee her lover's faithAnd their future lot, she bravedChurch curse to ken that crooked oathWhereby one hires a demon.A flash like doomcrack rent night's black:God's work stood anchored in that glareFocusing all time's day-suns in oneSo beggar Gerd might aim her lookAt gorgon-prospects with power to strike to stoneHearts of those who pierced time's core.What Gerd saw then engraved her mind —-Plague-pitted as the moon: each budShriveling to cinders at its source,Each love blazing blind to its gutted end —-And, fixed in the crystal center, grinning fierce:Earth's ever-green death's head."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18337"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18337,
        ""poem.id"": 18337,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prologue To Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18338"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18338,
        ""poem.id"": 18338,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Touch-And-Go"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18339"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18339,
        ""poem.id"": 18339,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soliloquy Of The Solipsist"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18340"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18340,
        ""poem.id"": 18340,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For A Fatherless Son"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18341"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18341,
        ""poem.id"": 18341,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Incommunicado"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18342"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18342,
        ""poem.id"": 18342,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Jilted Lover"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18343"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18343,
        ""poem.id"": 18343,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Moonrise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18344"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18344,
        ""poem.id"": 18344,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Widow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Widow. The word consumes itself —-Body, a sheet of newsprint on the fireLevitating a numb minute in the updraftOver the scalding, red topographyThat will put her heart out like an only eye.Widow. The dead syllable, with its shadowOf an echo, exposes the panel in the wallBehind which the secret passages lies—stale air,Fusty remembrances, the coiled-spring stairThat opens at the top onto nothing at all….Widow. The bitter spider sitsAnd sits in the center of her loveless spokes.Death is the dress she wears, her hat and collar.The moth-face of her husband, moonwhite and ill,Circles her like a prey she'd love to killA second time, to have him near again —-A paper image to lay against her heartThe way she laid his letters, till they grew warmAnd seemed to give her warmth, like a live skin.But it is she who is paper now, warmed by no one.Widow: that great, vacant estate!The voice of God is full of draftiness,Promising simply the hard stars, the spaceOf immortal blankness between starsAnd no bodies, singing like arrows up to heaven.Widow, the compassionate trees bend in,The trees of loneliness, the trees of mourning.They stand like shadows about the green landscape —-Or even like black holes cut out of it.A widow resembles them, a shadow-thing,Hand folding hand, and nothing in between.A bodiless soul could pass another soulIn this clear air and never notice it —-One soul pass through the other, frail as smokeAnd utterly ignorant of the way it took.That is the fear she has—the fearHis soul may beat and be beating at her dull senseLike Blue Mary's angel, dovelike against a paneBlinded to all but the grey, spiritless roomIt looks in on, and must go on looking in on."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18345"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18345,
        ""poem.id"": 18345,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Face Lift"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18346"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18346,
        ""poem.id"": 18346,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Amnesiac"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18347"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18347,
        ""poem.id"": 18347,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Jailer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18348"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18348,
        ""poem.id"": 18348,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:34:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Stones"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18349"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18349,
        ""poem.id"": 18349,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lament"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18350"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18350,
        ""poem.id"": 18350,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Magi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18351"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18351,
        ""poem.id"": 18351,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Waking In Winter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18352"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18352,
        ""poem.id"": 18352,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Burning The Letters"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I made a fire; being tiredOf the white fists of oldLetters and their death rattleWhen I came too close to the wastebasketWhat did they know that I didn't?Grain by grain, they unrolledSands where a dream of clear waterGrinned like a getaway car.I am not subtleLove, love, and well, I was tiredOf cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog packHolding in it's hateDully, under a pack of men in red jackets,And the eyes and times of the postmarks.This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:A glass caseMy fingers would enter althoughThey melt and sag, they are toldDo not touch.And here is an end to the writing,The spry hooks that bend and cringe and the smiles, the smilesAnd at least it will be a good place now, the attic.At least I won't be strung just under the surface,Dumb fishWith one tin eye,Watching for glints,Riding my ArcticBetween this wish and that wish.So, I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,They console me—Rising and flying, but blinded.They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angelsOnly they have nothing to say but anybody.I have seen to that.With the butt of a rakeI flake up papers that breathe like people,I fan them outBetween the yellow lettuces and the German cabbageInvolved in it's weird blue dreamsInvolved in a foetus.And a name with black edgesWilts at my foot,Sinuous orchisIn a nest of root-hairs and boredom—Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.My veins glow like trees.The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is likeA read burst and a cryThat splits from it's ripped bag and does not stopWith that dead eyeAnd the stuffed expression, but goes onDyeing the air,Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the waterWhat immortality is. That it is immortal."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18353"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18353,
        ""poem.id"": 18353,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Female Author"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18354"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18354,
        ""poem.id"": 18354,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Courage Of Shutting-Up"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18355"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18355,
        ""poem.id"": 18355,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Candles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18356"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18356,
        ""poem.id"": 18356,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""All The Dead Dears"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18357"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18357,
        ""poem.id"": 18357,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Metaphors"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/19/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
    },
    ""18358"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18358,
        ""poem.id"": 18358,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sculptor"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18359"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18359,
        ""poem.id"": 18359,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:35:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love Is A Parallax"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/17/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:train tracks always meet, not here, but only in the impossible mind's eye;horizons beat a retreat as we embarkon sophist seas to overtake that mark where wave pretends to drench real sky.' 'Well then, if we agree, it is not oddthat one man's devil is another's god or that the solar spectrum isa multitude of shaded grays; suspenseon the quicksands of ambivalence is our life's whole nemesis. So we could rave on, darling, you and I,until the stars tick out a lullaby about each cosmic pro and con;nothing changes, for all the blazing ofour drastic jargon, but clock hands that move implacably from twelve to one. We raise our arguments like sitting ducksto knock them down with logic or with luck and contradict ourselves for fun;the waitress holds our coats and we put onthe raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun who insists his playmates run. Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,would have me swallow the entire sun like an enormous oyster, downthe ocean in one gulp: you say a markof comet hara-kiri through the dark should inflame the sleeping town. So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and damesin dubious doorways forget their monday names, caper with candles in their heads;the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies inscattering candy from a zeppelin, playing his prodigal charades. The moon leans down to took; the tilting fishin the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish blessings right and left and cryhello, and then hello again in deafchurchyard ears until the starlit stiff graves all carol in reply. Now kiss again: till our strict father leansto call for curtain on our thousand scenes; brazen actors mock at him,multiply pink harlequins and singin gay ventriloquy from wing to wing while footlights flare and houselights dim. Tell now, we taunt where black or white beginsand separate the flutes from violins: the algebra of absolutesexplodes in a kaleidoscope of shapesthat jar, while each polemic jackanapes joins his enemies' recruits. The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':though prima donna pouts and critic stings, there burns throughout the line of words,the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusionwhich dreamers call real, and realists, illusion: an insight like the flight of birds: Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowingthe secret of their ecstasy's in going; some day, moving, one will drop,and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that healsonly to reopen as flesh congeals: cycling phoenix never stops. So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shellsof withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells and heavens till the spirits squeaksurrender: to build our bed as high as jack'sbold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks away our rationed days and weeks. Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,and god or void appall us till we drown in our own tears: today we startto pay the piper with each breath, yet loveknows not of death nor calculus above the simple sum of heart plus heart."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Sylvia Plath""
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    ""18360"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18360,
        ""poem.id"": 18360,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Winter Landscape, With Rooks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18361"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18361,
        ""poem.id"": 18361,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prospect"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18362"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18362,
        ""poem.id"": 18362,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Landowners"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18363"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18363,
        ""poem.id"": 18363,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bull Of Bendylaw"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18364"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18364,
        ""poem.id"": 18364,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lyonnesse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18365"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18365,
        ""poem.id"": 18365,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Totem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18366"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18366,
        ""poem.id"": 18366,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wintering"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18367"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18367,
        ""poem.id"": 18367,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Purdah"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18368"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18368,
        ""poem.id"": 18368,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Couriers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18369"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18369,
        ""poem.id"": 18369,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Strumpet Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18370"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18370,
        ""poem.id"": 18370,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Sisters Of Persephone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18371"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18371,
        ""poem.id"": 18371,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nick And The Candlestick"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18372"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18372,
        ""poem.id"": 18372,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Other Two"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18373"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18373,
        ""poem.id"": 18373,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Resolve"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18374"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18374,
        ""poem.id"": 18374,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Polly's Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18375"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18375,
        ""poem.id"": 18375,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Goatsucker"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18376"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18376,
        ""poem.id"": 18376,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Perseus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18377"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18377,
        ""poem.id"": 18377,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Views Of A Cadaver Room"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18378"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18378,
        ""poem.id"": 18378,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Queen's Complaint"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18379"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18379,
        ""poem.id"": 18379,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sleep In The Mojave Desert"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18380"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18380,
        ""poem.id"": 18380,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Eye-Mote"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18381"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18381,
        ""poem.id"": 18381,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Disquieting Muses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18382"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18382,
        ""poem.id"": 18382,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sleepers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18383"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18383,
        ""poem.id"": 18383,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tale Of A Tub"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18384"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18384,
        ""poem.id"": 18384,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Munich Mannequins"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18385"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18385,
        ""poem.id"": 18385,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Manor Garden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/22/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18386"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18386,
        ""poem.id"": 18386,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Virgin In A Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18387"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18387,
        ""poem.id"": 18387,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Swarm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18388"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18388,
        ""poem.id"": 18388,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vanity Fair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18389"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18389,
        ""poem.id"": 18389,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Thin People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18390"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18390,
        ""poem.id"": 18390,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fiesta Melons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18391"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18391,
        ""poem.id"": 18391,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sleepers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18392"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18392,
        ""poem.id"": 18392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Faun"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18393"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18393,
        ""poem.id"": 18393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Campers In Cloud Country"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18394"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18394,
        ""poem.id"": 18394,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bee Meeting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18395"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18395,
        ""poem.id"": 18395,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leaving Early"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18396"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18396,
        ""poem.id"": 18396,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Electra On Azalea Path"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18397"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18397,
        ""poem.id"": 18397,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Other"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18398"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18398,
        ""poem.id"": 18398,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poems, Potatoes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18399"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18399,
        ""poem.id"": 18399,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mary's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18400"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18400,
        ""poem.id"": 18400,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Night Shift"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18401"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18401,
        ""poem.id"": 18401,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18402"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18402,
        ""poem.id"": 18402,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poppies In October"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18403"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18403,
        ""poem.id"": 18403,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Paralytic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18404"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18404,
        ""poem.id"": 18404,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Women"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18405"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18405,
        ""poem.id"": 18405,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18406"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18406,
        ""poem.id"": 18406,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Face Lift"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18407"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18407,
        ""poem.id"": 18407,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Getting There"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18408"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18408,
        ""poem.id"": 18408,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Snakecharmer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18409"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18409,
        ""poem.id"": 18409,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dialogue Between Ghost And Priest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18410"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18410,
        ""poem.id"": 18410,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gigolo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18411"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18411,
        ""poem.id"": 18411,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Arrival Of The Bee Box"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18412"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18412,
        ""poem.id"": 18412,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Southern Sunrise"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
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    ""18478"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18478,
        ""poem.id"": 18478,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:34:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cinderella"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    }
}"
16,"2018-02-28 20:34:40","Roald Dahl","{
    ""601"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 601,
        ""poem.id"": 601,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Crocodile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/2/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""602"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 602,
        ""poem.id"": 602,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oh You Knid, You Are Vile And Vermicious...."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""603"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 603,
        ""poem.id"": 603,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Veruca Salt, The Little Brute"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""604"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 604,
        ""poem.id"": 604,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Candy Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""605"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 605,
        ""poem.id"": 605,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Excerpt –"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'This famous wicked little taleShould never have been put on saleIt is a mystery to meWhy loving parents cannot seeThat this is actually a bookAbout a brazen little crook...''...Now just imagine how you'd feelIf you had cooked a lovely meal,Delicious porridge, steaming hot,Fresh coffee in the coffee pot,With maybe toast and marmalade,The table beautifully laid,One place for you and one for dad,Another for your little lad.Then dad cries, 'Golly–gosh! Gee whizz!'Oh cripes! How hot this porridge is!'Let's take a walk along the street'Until it's cool enough to eat.'He adds, 'An early morning stroll'Is good for people on the whole.'It makes your appetite improve'It also helps your bowels move.'No proper wife would dare to questionSuch a sensible suggestion,Above all not at breakfast–timeWhen men are seldom at their prime.No sooner are you down the roadThan Goldilocks, that little toadThat nosey thieving little louse,Comes sneaking in your empty house....''...(Here comes the next catastrophe.)Most educated people chooseTo rid themselves of socks and shoesBefore they clamber into bed.But Goldie didn't give a shred.Her filthy shoes were thick with grime,And mud and mush and slush and slime.Worse still, upon the heel of oneWas something that a dog had done.I say once more, what would you thinkIf all this horrid dirt and stinkWas smeared upon your eiderdownBy this revolting little clown?(The famous story has no cluesTo show the girl removed her shoes.)Oh, what a tale of crime on crime!Let's check it for a second time.Crime One, the prosecution's case:She breaks and enters someone's place.Crime Two, the prosecutor notes:She steals a bowl of porridge oats.Crime Three: She breaks a precious chairBelonging to the Baby Bear.Crime Four: She smears each spotless sheetWith filthy messes from her feet.A judge would say without a blink,'Ten years hard labour in the clink!'But in the book, as you will see,The little beast gets off scot–free,While tiny children near and farShout 'Goody–good! Hooray! Hurrah!''Poor darling Goldilocks!' they say,'Thank goodness that she got away!'Myself, I think I'd rather sendYoung Goldie to a sticky end.'Oh daddy!' cried the Baby Bear,'My porridge gone! It isn't fair!''Then go upstairs,' the Big Bear said,'Your porridge is upon the bed.'But as it's inside mademoiselle,'You'll have to eat her up as well.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""606"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 606,
        ""poem.id"": 606,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Down They Go..."",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""607"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 607,
        ""poem.id"": 607,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:28:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rowing Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""608"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 608,
        ""poem.id"": 608,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""609"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 609,
        ""poem.id"": 609,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hey Diddle Diddle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""610"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 610,
        ""poem.id"": 610,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There's No Earthly Way Of Knowing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""611"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 611,
        ""poem.id"": 611,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If You Are Old And Have The Shakes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""612"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 612,
        ""poem.id"": 612,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Teacher Wasn'T Half As Nice As Yours Seems To Be"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""613"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 613,
        ""poem.id"": 613,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Had A Little Nut-Tree,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""614"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 614,
        ""poem.id"": 614,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Want It Now"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""615"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 615,
        ""poem.id"": 615,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Augustus Gloop! Augustus Gloop"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Augustus Gloop! Augustus Gloop!The great big greedy nincompoop!How long could we allow this beastTo gorge and guzzle, feed and feastOn everything he wanted to?Great Scott! It simply wouldn't do!However long this pig might live,We're positive he'd never giveEven the smallest bit of funOr happiness to anyone.So what we do in cases suchAs this, we use the gentle touch,And carefully we take the bratAnd turn him into something thatWill give great pleasure to us all–A doll, for instance, or a ball,Or marbles or a rocking horse.But this revolting boy, of course,Was so unutterably vile,So greedy, foul, and infantileHe left a most disgusting tasteInside our mouths, and so in hasteWe chose a thing that, come what may,Would take the nasty taste away.'Come on!' we cried, 'The time is ripeTo send him shooting up the pipe!He has to go! It has to be!'And very soon, he's going to seeInside the room to which he's goneSome funny things are going on.But don't, dear children, be alarmed;Augustus Gloop will not be harmed,Although, of course, we must admitHe will be altered quite a bit.He'll be quite changed from what he's been,When he goes through the fudge machine:Slowly, the wheels go round and round,The cogs begin to grind and pound;A hundred knives go slice, slice, slice;We add some sugar, cream, and spice;We boil him for a minute more,Until we're absolutely sureThat all the greed and all the gallIs boiled away for once and all.Then out he comes! And now! By grace!A miracle has taken place!This boy, who only just beforeWas loathed by men from shore to shore,This greedy brute, this louse's ear,Is loved by people everywhere!For who could hate or bear a grudgeAgainst a luscious bit of fudge?'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""616"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 616,
        ""poem.id"": 616,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dear Friends, We Surely All Agree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Dear friends, we surely all agreeThere's almost nothing worse to seeThan some repulsive little bumWho's always chewing chewing gum.(It's very near as bad as thoseWho sit around and pick the nose).So please believe us when we sayThat chewing gum will never pay;This sticky habit's bound to sendThe chewer to a sticky end.Did any of you ever knowA person called Miss Bigelow?This dreadful woman saw no wrongIn chewing, chewing all day long.She chewed while bathing in the tub,She chewed while dancing at her club,She chewed in church and on the bus;It really was quite ludicrous!And when she couldn't find her gum,She'd chew up the linoleum,Or anything that happened near–A pair of boots, the postman's ear,Or other people's underclothes,And once she chewed her boy friend's nose.She went on chewing till, at last,Her chewing muscles grew so vastThat from her face her giant chinStuck out just like a violin.For years and years she chewed away,Consuming fifty packs a day,Until one summer's eve, alas,A horrid business came to pass.Miss Bigelow went late to bed,For half an hour she lay and read,Chewing and chewing all the whileLike some great clockwork crocodile.At last, she put her gum awayUpon a special little tray,And settled back and went to sleep–(She managed this by counting sheep).But now, how strange! Although she slept,Those massive jaws of hers still keptOn chewing, chewing through the night,Even with nothing there to bite.They were, you see, in such a grooveThey positively had to move.And very grim it was to hearIn pitchy darkness, loud and clear,This sleeping woman's great big trapOpening and shutting, snap–snap–snap!Faster and faster, chop–chop–chop,The noise went on, it wouldn't stop.Until at last her jaws decideTo pause and open extra wide,And with the most tremendous chewThey bit the lady's tongue in two.Thereafter, just from chewing gum,Miss Bigelow was always dumb,And spent her life shut up in someDisgusting sanatorium.And that is why we'll try so hardTo save Miss Violet BeauregardFrom suffering an equal fate.She's still quite young. It's not too late,Provided she survives the cure.We hope she does. We can't be sure.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""617"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 617,
        ""poem.id"": 617,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pure Imagination"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""618"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 618,
        ""poem.id"": 618,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ve Got A Golden Ticket"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""619"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 619,
        ""poem.id"": 619,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Attention Please! Attention Please!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'Attention please! Attention please!Don't dare to talk! Don't dare to sneeze!Don't doze or daydream! Stay awake!Your health, your very life's at stake!Ho–ho, you say, they can't mean me.Ha–ha, we answer, wait and see.Did any of you ever meetA child called Goldie Pinklesweet?Who on her seventh birthday wentTo stay with Granny down in Kent.At lunchtime on the second dayOf dearest little Goldie's stay,Granny announced, 'I'm going downTo do some shopping in the town.'(D'you know why Granny didn't tellThe child to come along as well?She's going to the nearest innTo buy herself a double gin.)So out she creeps. She shuts the door.And Goldie, after making sureThat she is really by herself,Goes quickly to the medicine shelf,And there, her little greedy eyesSee pills of every shape and size,Such fascinating colours too ––Some green, some pink, some brown, some blue.'All right,' she says, 'let's try the brown,'She takes one pill and gulps it down.'Yum–yum!' she cries. 'Hooray! What fun!They're chocolate–coated, every one!'She gobbles five, she gobbles ten,She stops her gobbling only whenThe last pill's gone. There are no more.Slowly she rises from the floor.She stops. She hiccups. Dear, oh dear,She starts to feel a trifle queer.You see, how could young Goldie know,For nobody had told her so,That Grandmama, her old relationSuffered from frightful constipation.This meant that every night she'd giveHerself a powerful laxative,And all the medicines that she'd boughtWere naturally of this sort.The pink and red and blue and greenWere all extremely strong and mean.But far more fierce and meaner still,Was Granny's little chocolate pill.Its blast effect was quite uncanny.It used to shake up even Granny.In point of fact she did not dareTo use them more than twice a year.So can you wonder little GoldieBegan to feel a wee bit moldy?Inside her tummy, something stirred.A funny gurgling sound was heard,And then, oh dear, from deep within,The ghastly rumbling sounds begin!They rumbilate and roar and boom!They bounce and echo round the room!The floorboards shake and from the wallSome bits of paint and plaster fall.Explosions, whistles, awful bangsWere followed by the loudest clangs.(A man next door was heard to say,'A thunderstorm is on the way.')But on and on the rumbling goes.A window cracks, a lamp–bulb blows.Young Goldie clutched herself and cried,'There's something wrong with my inside!'This was, we very greatly fear,The understatement of the year.For wouldn't any child feel crummy,With loud explosions in her tummy?Granny, at half past two, came in,Weaving a little from the gin,But even so she quickly sawThe empty bottle on the floor.'My precious laxatives!' she cried.'I don't feel well,' the girl replied.Angrily Grandma shook her head.'I'm really not surprised,' she said.'Why can't you leave my pills alone?'With that, she grabbed the telephoneAnd shouted, 'Listen, send us quickAn ambulance! A child is sick!It's number fifty, Fontwell Road!Come fast! I think she might explode!'We're sure you do not wish to hearAbout the hospital and whereThey did a lot of horrid thingsWith stomach–pumps and rubber rings.Let's answer what you want to know;Did Goldie live or did she go?The doctors gathered round her bed,'There's really not much hope,' they said.'She's going, going, gone!' they cried.'She's had her chips! She's dead! She's died!''I'm not so sure,' the child replied.And all at once she opened wideHer great big bluish eyes and sighed,And gave the anxious docs a wink,And said, 'I'll be okay, I think.'So Goldie lived and back she wentAt first to Granny's place in Kent.Her father came the second dayAnd fetched her in a Chevrolet,And drove her to their home in Dover.But Goldie's troubles were not over.You see, if someone takes enoughOf any highly dangerous stuff,One will invariably findSome traces of it left behind.It pains us greatly to relateThat Goldie suffered from this fate.She'd taken such a massive fillOf this unpleasant kind of pill,It got into her blood and bones,It messed up all her chromosomes,It made her constantly upset,And she could never really getThe beastly stuff to go away.And so the girl was forced to stayFor seven hours every dayWithin the everlasting gloomOf what we call The Ladies Room.And after all, the W.C.Is not the gayest place to be.So now, before it is too late.Take heed of Goldie's dreadful fate.And seriously, all jokes apart,Do promise us across your heartThat you will never help yourselfTo medicine from the medicine shelf.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""620"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 620,
        ""poem.id"": 620,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Three Little Pigs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The animal I really dig,Above all others is the pig.Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever,Pigs are courteous. However,Now and then, to break this rule,One meets a pig who is a fool.What, for example, would you say,If strolling through the woods one day,Right there in front of you you sawA pig who'd built his house of STRAW?The Wolf who saw it licked his lips,And said, 'That pig has had his chips.' 'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!''No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!''Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'The little pig began to pray,But Wolfie blew his house away.He shouted, 'Bacon, pork and ham!Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!'And though he ate the pig quite fast,He carefully kept the tail till last.Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated.Surprise, surprise, for soon he notedAnother little house for pigs,And this one had been built of TWIGS!'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!''No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!''Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'The Wolf said, 'Okay, here we go!'He then began to blow and blow.The little pig began to squeal.He cried, 'Oh Wolf, you've had one meal!Why can't we talk and make a deal?The Wolf replied, 'Not on your nelly!'And soon the pig was in his belly.'Two juicy little pigs!' Wolf cried,'But still I'm not quite satisfied!I know how full my tummy's bulging,But oh, how I adore indulging.'So creeping quietly as a mouse,The Wolf approached another house,A house which also had insideA little piggy trying to hide.'You'll not get me!' the Piggy cried.'I'll blow you down!' the Wolf replied.'You'll need,' Pig said, 'a lot of puff,And I don't think you've got enough.'Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew.The house stayed up as good as new. 'If I can't blow it down,' Wolf said,I'll have to blow it up instead.I'll come back in the dead of nightAnd blow it up with dynamite!'Pig cried, 'You brute! I might have known!'Then, picking up the telephone,He dialed as quickly as he couldThe number of red Riding Hood.'Hello,' she said. 'Who's speaking? Who?Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?'Pig cried, 'I need your help, Miss Hood!Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?''I'll try of course,' Miss Hood replied.'What's on your mind...?' 'A Wolf!' Pig cried.'I know you've dealt with wolves before,And now I've got one at my door!''My darling Pig,' she said, 'my sweet,That's something really up my street.I've just begun to wash my hair.But when it's dry, I'll be right there.'A short while later, through the wood,Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood.The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze,And yellowish, like mayonnaise.His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw,And spit was dripping from his jaw.Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers.She draws the pistol from her knickers.Once more she hits the vital spot,And kills him with a single shot.Pig, peeping through the window, stoodAnd yelled, 'Well done, Miss Riding Hood!'Ah, Piglet, you must never trustYoung ladies from the upper crust.For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes,Not only has two wolfskin coats,But when she goes from place to place,She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""621"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 621,
        ""poem.id"": 621,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:29:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Little Red Riding Hood And The Wolf"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""As soon as Wolf began to feelThat he would like a decent meal,He went and knocked on Grandma's door.When Grandma opened it, she sawThe sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,And Wolfie said, 'May I come in?'Poor Grandmamma was terrified,'He's going to eat me up!' she cried.And she was absolutely right.He ate her up in one big bite. But Grandmamma was small and tough,And Wolfie wailed, 'That's not enough!I haven't yet begun to feelThat I have had a decent meal!'He ran around the kitchen yelping,'I've got to have a second helping!'Then added with a frightful leer,'I'm therefore going to wait right hereTill Little Miss Red Riding HoodComes home from walking in the wood.'He quickly put on Grandma's clothes,(Of course he hadn't eaten those).He dressed himself in coat and hat.He put on shoes, and after that,He even brushed and curled his hair,Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.In came the little girl in red.She stopped. She stared. And then she said,'What great big ears you have, Grandma.''All the better to hear you with,'the Wolf replied.'What great big eyes you have, Grandma.'said Little Red Riding Hood.'All the better to see you with,'the Wolf replied. He sat there watching her and smiled.He thought, I'm going to eat this child.Compared with her old Grandmamma,She's going to taste like caviar.Then Little Red Riding Hood said, 'But Grandma, what a lovely great bigfurry coat you have on.''That's wrong!' cried Wolf.'Have you forgotTo tell me what BIG TEETH I've got?Ah well, no matter what you say,I'm going to eat you anyway.'The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.She whips a pistol from her knickers.She aims it at the creature's head,And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.A few weeks later, in the wood,I came across Miss Riding Hood.But what a change! No cloak of red,No silly hood upon her head.She said, 'Hello, and do please noteMy lovely furry wolfskin coat.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""622"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 622,
        ""poem.id"": 622,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""St Ives"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""623"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 623,
        ""poem.id"": 623,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cinderella"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I guess you think you know this story.You don't. The real one's much more gory.The phoney one, the one you know,Was cooked up years and years ago,And made to sound all soft and sappyjust to keep the children happy.Mind you, they got the first bit right,The bit where, in the dead of night,The Ugly Sisters, jewels and all,Departed for the Palace Ball,While darling little CinderellaWas locked up in a slimy cellar,Where rats who wanted things to eat,Began to nibble at her feet.She bellowed 'Help!' and 'Let me out!The Magic Fairy heard her shout.Appearing in a blaze of light,She said: 'My dear, are you all right?''All right?' cried Cindy .'Can't you see'I feel as rotten as can be!'She beat her fist against the wall,And shouted, 'Get me to the Ball!'There is a Disco at the Palace!'The rest have gone and I am jealous!'I want a dress! I want a coach!'And earrings and a diamond brooch!'And silver slippers, two of those!'And lovely nylon panty hose!'Done up like that I'll guarantee'The handsome Prince will fall for me!'The Fairy said, 'Hang on a tick.'She gave her wand a mighty flickAnd quickly, in no time at all,Cindy was at the Palace Ball!It made the Ugly Sisters winceTo see her dancing with the Prince.She held him very tight and pressedherself against his manly chest.The Prince himself was turned to pulp,All he could do was gasp and gulp.Then midnight struck. She shouted,'Heck!I've got to run to save my neck!'The Prince cried, 'No! Alas! Alack!'He grabbed her dress to hold her back.As Cindy shouted, 'Let me go!'The dress was ripped from head to toe.She ran out in her underwear,And lost one slipper on the stair.The Prince was on it like a dart,He pressed it to his pounding heart,'The girl this slipper fits,' he cried,'Tomorrow morn shall be my bride!I'll visit every house in town'Until I've tracked the maiden down!'Then rather carelessly, I fear,He placed it on a crate of beer.At once, one of the Ugly Sisters,(The one whose face was blotched with blisters)Sneaked up and grabbed the dainty shoe,And quickly flushed it down the loo.Then in its place she calmly putThe slipper from her own left foot.Ah ha, you see, the plot grows thicker,And Cindy's luck starts looking sicker.Next day, the Prince went charging downTo knock on all the doors in town.In every house, the tension grew.Who was the owner of the shoe?The shoe was long and very wide.(A normal foot got lost inside.)Also it smelled a wee bit icky.(The owner's feet were hot and sticky.)Thousands of eager people cameTo try it on, but all in vain.Now came the Ugly Sisters' go.One tried it on. The Prince screamed, 'No!'But she screamed, 'Yes! It fits! Whoopee!'So now you've got to marry me!'The Prince went white from ear to ear.He muttered, 'Let me out of here.''Oh no you don't! You made a vow!'There's no way you can back out now!''Off with her head!'The Prince roared back.They chopped it off with one big whack.This pleased the Prince. He smiled and said,'She's prettier without her head.'Then up came Sister Number Two,Who yelled, 'Now I will try the shoe!''Try this instead!' the Prince yelled back.He swung his trusty sword and smackHer head went crashing to the ground.It bounced a bit and rolled around.In the kitchen, peeling spuds,Cinderella heard the thudsOf bouncing heads upon the floor,And poked her own head round the door.'What's all the racket? 'Cindy cried.'Mind your own bizz,' the Prince replied.Poor Cindy's heart was torn to shreds.My Prince! she thought. He chops off heads!How could I marry anyoneWho does that sort of thing for fun?The Prince cried, 'Who's this dirty slut?'Off with her nut! Off with her nut!'Just then, all in a blaze of light,The Magic Fairy hove in sight,Her Magic Wand went swoosh and swish!'Cindy! 'she cried, 'come make a wish!'Wish anything and have no doubt'That I will make it come about!'Cindy answered, 'Oh kind Fairy,'This time I shall be more wary.'No more Princes, no more money.'I have had my taste of honey.I'm wishing for a decent man.'They're hard to find. D'you think you can?'Within a minute, CinderellaWas married to a lovely feller,A simple jam maker by trade,Who sold good home-made marmalade.Their house was filled with smiles and laughterAnd they were happy ever after."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""624"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 624,
        ""poem.id"": 624,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""\"Mike Teavee...\""",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set -- Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink -- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES! 'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""625"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 625,
        ""poem.id"": 625,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hot And Cold"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""626"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 626,
        ""poem.id"": 626,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pig"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In England once there lived a bigAnd wonderfully clever pig.To everybody it was plainThat Piggy had a massive brain.He worked out sums inside his head,There was no book he hadn't read.He knew what made an airplane fly,He knew how engines worked and why.He knew all this, but in the endOne question drove him round the bend:He simply couldn't puzzle outWhat LIFE was really all about.What was the reason for his birth? Why was he placed upon this earth? His giant brain went round and round.Alas, no answer could be found.Till suddenly one wondrous night.All in a flash he saw the light.He jumped up like a ballet dancerAnd yelled, 'By gum, I've got the answer! ''They want my bacon slice by slice'To sell at a tremendous price! 'They want my tender juicy chops'To put in all the butcher's shops! 'They want my pork to make a roast'And that's the part'll cost the most! 'They want my sausages in strings! 'They even want my chitterlings! 'The butcher's shop! The carving knife! 'That is the reason for my life! 'Such thoughts as these are not designedTo give a pig great peace of mind.Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,A pail of pigswill in his hand,And piggy with a mighty roar,Bashes the farmer to the floor…Now comes the rather grisly bitSo let's not make too much of it,Except that you must understandThat Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,He ate him up from head to toe,Chewing the pieces nice and slow.It took an hour to reach the feet,Because there was so much to eat,And when he finished, Pig, of course,Felt absolutely no remorse.Slowly he scratched his brainy headAnd with a little smile he said,'I had a fairly powerful hunch'That he might have me for his lunch.'And so, because I feared the worst,'I thought I'd better eat him first.'"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    },
    ""627"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 627,
        ""poem.id"": 627,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Television"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The most important thing we've learned,So far as children are concerned,Is never, NEVER, NEVER letThem near your television set --Or better still, just don't installThe idiotic thing at all.In almost every house we've been,We've watched them gaping at the screen.They loll and slop and lounge about,And stare until their eyes pop out.(Last week in someone's place we sawA dozen eyeballs on the floor.)They sit and stare and stare and sitUntil they're hypnotised by it,Until they're absolutely drunkWith all that shocking ghastly junk.Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,They don't climb out the window sill,They never fight or kick or punch,They leave you free to cook the lunchAnd wash the dishes in the sink --But did you ever stop to think,To wonder just exactly whatThis does to your beloved tot?IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLINDHE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTANDA FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,'But if we take the set away,What shall we do to entertainOur darling children? Please explain!'We'll answer this by asking you,'What used the darling ones to do?'How used they keep themselves contentedBefore this monster was invented?'Have you forgotten? Don't you know?We'll say it very loud and slow:THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,AND READ and READ, and then proceedTo READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!One half their lives was reading books!The nursery shelves held books galore!Books cluttered up the nursery floor!And in the bedroom, by the bed,More books were waiting to be read!Such wondrous, fine, fantastic talesOf dragons, gypsies, queens, and whalesAnd treasure isles, and distant shoresWhere smugglers rowed with muffled oars,And pirates wearing purple pants,And sailing ships and elephants,And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,Stirring away at something hot.(It smells so good, what can it be?Good gracious, it's Penelope.)The younger ones had Beatrix PotterWith Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-Just How The Camel Got His Hump,And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-Oh, books, what books they used to know,Those children living long ago!So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,Go throw your TV set away,And in its place you can installA lovely bookshelf on the wall.Then fill the shelves with lots of books,Ignoring all the dirty looks,The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,And children hitting you with sticks-Fear not, because we promise youThat, in about a week or twoOf having nothing else to do,They'll now begin to feel the needOf having something to read.And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!You watch the slowly growing joyThat fills their hearts. They'll grow so keenThey'll wonder what they'd ever seenIn that ridiculous machine,That nauseating, foul, unclean,Repulsive television screen!And later, each and every kidWill love you more for what you did."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Roald Dahl""
    }
}"
17,"2018-02-28 20:35:18","Wilfred Owen","{
    ""628"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 628,
        ""poem.id"": 628,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Roundel"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/5/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""In Shrewsbury Town e'en Hercules wox tired,Tired of the streets that end not up nor down;Tired of the Quarry, though seats may be hired Of Shrewsbury Town.Tired of the tongues that knew not his renown;Tired of the Quarry Bye-Laws, so admiredBy the Salopian, the somnambulant clown.Weak as a babe, and in like wise attired,He leaned upon his club; frowned a last frown,And of ineffable boredom, so expired In Shrewsbury Town."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""629"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 629,
        ""poem.id"": 629,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Palinode"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/31/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Some little while ago, I had a moodWhen what we know as 'Nature' seemed to meSo sympathetic, ample, sweet, and goodThat I preferred it to Society.Not for a season, be it understood,But altogether and perpetually.As far as feeling went, I thought I couldBe quit of men, live independently.For men and minds, heart-humours and heart's-teaseDisturbed without exciting: whereas woods,The seasonal changes, and the chanting seasWere both soul-rousing and sense-lulling. Moods,Such moods prolonged, became a mania.I found the stark stretch of a bleak-blown moorLeast barren of all places. Mere extrancaSeemed populace and town: things to ignore.But if the sovereign sun I might beholdWith condescension coming down benign,And blessing all the field and air with gold,Then the contentment of the world was mine.In secret deserts where the night was nudeAnd each excited star grew ardent-eyed,I tasted more than this life's plenitude,And far as farthest stars perceive, I spied.Once, when the whiteness of the spectral moonHad terrorized the creatures of the wold,When that long staring of the glazed-eyedHad stupefied the land and made it cold,I fell seduced into a madness; for,Forgetting in that night the life of days,I said I had no need of fellows more,I madly hated men and all their ways.I hated, feeling hated; I supposedThat others did not need me any more.The book of human knowledge I then closed;Passion, art, science? Trifles to ignore.But in my error, men ignored not me,And did not let me in my moonbeams bask.And I took antidotes; though what they beUnless yourself be poisoned, do not ask.For I am overdosed. The City nowHolds all my passion; these my soul most feels:Crowds surging; racket of traffic; market row;Bridges, sonorous under rapid wheels;Pacific lamentations of a bell;The smoking of the old men at their doors;All attitudes of children; the farewellAnd casting-off of ships for far-off shores."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""630"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 630,
        ""poem.id"": 630,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Shy Hand"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""631"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 631,
        ""poem.id"": 631,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""632"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 632,
        ""poem.id"": 632,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Calls [unfinished]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""633"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 633,
        ""poem.id"": 633,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""634"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 634,
        ""poem.id"": 634,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of Songs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""635"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 635,
        ""poem.id"": 635,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shadwell Stair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""636"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 636,
        ""poem.id"": 636,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:30:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On My Songs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""637"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 637,
        ""poem.id"": 637,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maundy Thursday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""638"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 638,
        ""poem.id"": 638,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Antaeus: [a Fragment]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""639"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 639,
        ""poem.id"": 639,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O World Of Many Worlds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""640"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 640,
        ""poem.id"": 640,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Calls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""641"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 641,
        ""poem.id"": 641,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""642"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 642,
        ""poem.id"": 642,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Preface"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""643"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 643,
        ""poem.id"": 643,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spells And Incantations"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""644"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 644,
        ""poem.id"": 644,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Storm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""645"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 645,
        ""poem.id"": 645,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""646"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 646,
        ""poem.id"": 646,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Uriconium: An Ode"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""647"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 647,
        ""poem.id"": 647,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:31:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Six O'Clock In Princes Street"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""648"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 648,
        ""poem.id"": 648,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Red Lips Are Not So Red"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""649"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 649,
        ""poem.id"": 649,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Le Christianisme"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""650"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 650,
        ""poem.id"": 650,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""651"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 651,
        ""poem.id"": 651,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Training"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""652"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 652,
        ""poem.id"": 652,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Unreturning"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""653"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 653,
        ""poem.id"": 653,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Music"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 654,
        ""poem.id"": 654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hospital Barge At Cerisy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 655,
        ""poem.id"": 655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""S.I.W."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 656,
        ""poem.id"": 656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Parable Of The Young Man And The Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 657,
        ""poem.id"": 657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 658,
        ""poem.id"": 658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hospital Barge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 659,
        ""poem.id"": 659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Kind Ghosts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 660,
        ""poem.id"": 660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Winter Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 661,
        ""poem.id"": 661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Has Your Soul Sipped?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 662,
        ""poem.id"": 662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:32:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Miners"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 663,
        ""poem.id"": 663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Terre (Being The Philosophy Of Many Soldiers)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""664"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 664,
        ""poem.id"": 664,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From My Diary, July 1914"",
        ""poem.date"": ""4/1/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 665,
        ""poem.id"": 665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Roads Also"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 666,
        ""poem.id"": 666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With An Identity Disc"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 667,
        ""poem.id"": 667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Show"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18654,
        ""poem.id"": 18654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The End"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18655,
        ""poem.id"": 18655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Schoolmistress"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18656,
        ""poem.id"": 18656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Chances"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18657,
        ""poem.id"": 18657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Smile, Smile, Smile"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18658,
        ""poem.id"": 18658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Happiness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18659,
        ""poem.id"": 18659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Young Soldier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18660,
        ""poem.id"": 18660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As Bronze May Be Much Beautified"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18661,
        ""poem.id"": 18661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wild With All Regrets"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18662,
        ""poem.id"": 18662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dead-Beat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18663,
        ""poem.id"": 18663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Letter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18664"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18664,
        ""poem.id"": 18664,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Terre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18665,
        ""poem.id"": 18665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Conscious"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18666,
        ""poem.id"": 18666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:40:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Insensibility"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18667,
        ""poem.id"": 18667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Spring Offensive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18668"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18668,
        ""poem.id"": 18668,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""At A Calvary Near The Ancre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18669,
        ""poem.id"": 18669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sentry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18670"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18670,
        ""poem.id"": 18670,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""But I Was Looking At The Permanent Stars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18671,
        ""poem.id"": 18671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Send-Off"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18672,
        ""poem.id"": 18672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inspection"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18673,
        ""poem.id"": 18673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soldier's Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18674,
        ""poem.id"": 18674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18675,
        ""poem.id"": 18675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Imperial Elegy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18676,
        ""poem.id"": 18676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cramped In That Funnelled Hole"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18677,
        ""poem.id"": 18677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Greater Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18678,
        ""poem.id"": 18678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""[i Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18679"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18679,
        ""poem.id"": 18679,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:41:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Strange Meeting"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""It seemed that out of the battle I escapedDown some profound dull tunnel, long since scoopedThrough granites which Titanic wars had groined.Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and staredWith piteous recognition in fixed eyes,Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.'Strange, friend,' I said, 'Here is no cause to mourn.''None,' said the other, 'Save the undone years,The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,Was my life also; I went hunting wildAfter the wildest beauty in the world,Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,But mocks the steady running of the hour,And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.For by my glee might many men have laughed,And of my weeping something has been left,Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,The pity of war, the pity war distilled.Now men will go content with what we spoiled.Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.Courage was mine, and I had mystery;Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;To miss the march of this retreating worldInto vain citadels that are not walled.Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheelsI would go up and wash them from sweet wells,Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.I would have poured my spirit without stintBut not through wounds; not on the cess of war.Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.I am the enemy you killed, my friend.I knew you in this dark; for so you frownedYesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.Let us sleep now ..."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18680"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18680,
        ""poem.id"": 18680,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Apologia Pro Poemate Meo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18681"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18681,
        ""poem.id"": 18681,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegy In April And September"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18682"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18682,
        ""poem.id"": 18682,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Beauty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18683,
        ""poem.id"": 18683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Laugh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18684,
        ""poem.id"": 18684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Next War"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18685,
        ""poem.id"": 18685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A New Heaven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18686"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18686,
        ""poem.id"": 18686,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Know The Music"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18687"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18687,
        ""poem.id"": 18687,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Arms And The Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18688"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18688,
        ""poem.id"": 18688,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mental Cases"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18689"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18689,
        ""poem.id"": 18689,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Futility"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18690"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18690,
        ""poem.id"": 18690,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Exposure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ... 2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,5 But nothing happens.6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.8 Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,9 Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.10 What are we doing here?11 The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow ...12 We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.13 Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army14 Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray,15 But nothing happens. 16 Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.17 Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,18 With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew,19 We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,20 But nothing happens. II21 Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces--22 We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,23 Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,24 Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.25 Is it that we are dying?26 Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed27 With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;28 For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;29 Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed--30 We turn back to our dying.31 Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;32 Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.33 For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;34 Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,35 For love of God seems dying.36 To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us,37 Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp.38 The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,39 Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,40 But nothing happens."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18691"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18691,
        ""poem.id"": 18691,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Asleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18692"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18692,
        ""poem.id"": 18692,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""1914"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18693"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18693,
        ""poem.id"": 18693,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:42:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Disabled"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees, And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,- In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands. All of them touch him like some queer disease. There was an artist silly for his face, For it was younger than his youth, last year. Now, he is old; his back will never brace; He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race And leap of purple spurted from his thigh. One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg, After the matches, carried shoulder-high. It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why. Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts, That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years. Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt, And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers. Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul. Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole. Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18694"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18694,
        ""poem.id"": 18694,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Anthem For Doomed Youth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    },
    ""18695"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18695,
        ""poem.id"": 18695,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dulce Et Decorum Est"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Wilfred Owen""
    }
}"
18,"2018-02-28 20:37:11","Robert Burns","{
    ""668"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 668,
        ""poem.id"": 668,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""148. To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 669,
        ""poem.id"": 669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""670"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 670,
        ""poem.id"": 670,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 671,
        ""poem.id"": 671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Miss Ferrier, Enclosing Elegy On Sir J. H. Blair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 672,
        ""poem.id"": 672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 673,
        ""poem.id"": 673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Willie Brew'D A Peck O' Maut"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 674,
        ""poem.id"": 674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:33:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Impromptu On Dumourier's Desertion Of The French Republican Army"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 675,
        ""poem.id"": 675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To William Simson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,And unco vain,Should I believe, my coaxin billieYour flatterin strain.But I'se believe ye kindly meant it:I sud be laith to think ye hintedIronic satire, sidelins sklentedOn my poor Musie;Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,I scarce excuse ye.My senses wad be in a creel,Should I but dare a hope to speelWi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,The braes o' fame;Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,A deathless name.(O Fergusson! thy glorious partsIll suited law's dry, musty arts!My curse upon your whunstane hearts,Ye E'nbrugh gentry!The tithe o' what ye waste at cartesWad stow'd his pantry!)Yet when a tale comes i' my head,Or lassies gie my heart a screed—As whiles they're like to be my dead,(O sad disease!)I kittle up my rustic reed;It gies me ease.Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,She's gotten poets o' her ain;Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,But tune their lays,Till echoes a' resound againHer weel-sung praise.Nae poet thought her worth his while,To set her name in measur'd style;She lay like some unkenn'd-of-isleBeside New Holland,Or whare wild-meeting oceans boilBesouth Magellan.Ramsay an' famous FergussonGied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,Owre Scotland rings;While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' DoonNaebody sings.Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine,Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line:But Willie, set your fit to mine,An' cock your crest;We'll gar our streams an' burnies shineUp wi' the best!We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells,Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells,Whare glorious WallaceAft bure the gree, as story tells,Frae Suthron billies.At Wallace' name, what Scottish bloodBut boils up in a spring-tide flood!Oft have our fearless fathers strodeBy Wallace' side,Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,Or glorious died!O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,When lintwhites chant amang the buds,And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,Their loves enjoy;While thro' the braes the cushat croodsWith wailfu' cry!Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,When winds rave thro' the naked tree;Or frosts on hills of OchiltreeAre hoary gray;Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,Dark'ning the day!O Nature! a' thy shews an' formsTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!Whether the summer kindly warms,Wi' life an light;Or winter howls, in gusty storms,The lang, dark night!The muse, nae poet ever fand her,Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,Adown some trottin burn's meander,An' no think lang:O sweet to stray, an' pensive ponderA heart-felt sang!The war'ly race may drudge an' drive,Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive;Let me fair Nature's face descrive,And I, wi' pleasure,Shall let the busy, grumbling hiveBum owre their treasure.Fareweel, \"my rhyme-composing\" brither!We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither:Now let us lay our heads thegither,In love fraternal:May envy wallop in a tether,Black fiend, infernal!While Highlandmen hate tools an' taxes;While moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies;While terra firma, on her axis,Diurnal turns;Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,In Robert Burns.POSTCRIPTMY memory's no worth a preen;I had amaist forgotten clean,Ye bade me write you what they meanBy this \"new-light,\"'Bout which our herds sae aft hae beenMaist like to fight.In days when mankind were but callansAt grammar, logic, an' sic talents,They took nae pains their speech to balance,Or rules to gie;But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,Like you or me.In thae auld times, they thought the moon,Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,Wore by degrees, till her last roonGaed past their viewin;An' shortly after she was doneThey gat a new ane.This passed for certain, undisputed;It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,An' ca'd it wrang;An' muckle din there was about it,Baith loud an' lang.Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neukAn' out of' sight,An' backlins-comin to the leukShe grew mair bright.This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;The herds and hissels were alarm'dThe rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,That beardless laddiesShould think they better wer inform'd,Than their auld daddies.Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks;Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;An monie a fallow gat his licks,Wi' hearty crunt;An' some, to learn them for their tricks,Were hang'd an' brunt.This game was play'd in mony lands,An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,That faith, the youngsters took the sandsWi' nimble shanks;Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,Sic bluidy pranks.But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe;Till now, amaist on ev'ry knoweYe'll find ane plac'd;An' some their new-light fair avow,Just quite barefac'd.Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;Mysel', I've even seen them greetinWi' girnin spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lied onBy word an' write.But shortly they will cowe the louns!Some auld-light herds in neebor tounsAre mind't, in things they ca' balloons,To tak a flight;An' stay ae month amang the moonsAn' see them right.Guid observation they will gie them;An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,The hindmaist shaird, they'll fetch it wi' themJust i' their pouch;An' when the new-light billies see them,I think they'll crouch!Sae, ye observe that a' this clatterIs naething but a \"moonshine matter\";But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatterIn logic tulyie,I hope we bardies ken some betterThan mind sic brulyie."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 676,
        ""poem.id"": 676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To The Rev. John M'Math"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'rTo shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,Or in gulravage rinnin scowrTo pass the time,To you I dedicate the hourIn idle rhyme.My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnetOn gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,Is grown right eerie now she's done it,Lest they should blame her,An' rouse their holy thunder on itAn anathem her.I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,That I, a simple, country bardie,Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,Wha, if they ken me,Can easy, wi' a single wordie,Lowse hell upon me.But I gae mad at their grimaces,Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,Their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,Their raxin conscience,Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgracesWaur nor their nonsense.There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,Wha has mair honour in his breastThan mony scores as guid's the priestWha sae abus'd him:And may a bard no crack his jestWhat way they've us'd him?See him, the poor man's friend in need,The gentleman in word an' deed—An' shall his fame an' honour bleedBy worthless, skellums,An' not a muse erect her headTo cowe the blellums?O Pope, had I thy satire's dartsTo gie the rascals their deserts,I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,An' tell aloudTheir jugglin hocus-pocus artsTo cheat the crowd.God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,Nor am I even the thing I could be,But twenty times I rather would beAn atheist clean,Than under gospel colours hid beJust for a screen.An honest man may like a glass,An honest man may like a lass,But mean revenge, an' malice fauseHe'll still disdain,An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,Like some we ken.They take religion in their mouth;They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,For what?—to gie their malice skouthOn some puir wight,An' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,To ruin straight.All hail, Religion! maid divine!Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,Who in her rough imperfect lineThus daurs to name thee;To stigmatise false friends of thineCan ne'er defame thee.Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,An' far unworthy of thy train,With trembling voice I tune my strain,To join with thoseWho boldly dare thy cause maintainIn spite of foes:In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,In spite o' undermining jobs,In spite o' dark banditti stabsAt worth an' merit,By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,But hellish spirit.O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,Within thy presbyterial boundA candid liberal band is foundOf public teachers,As men, as Christians too, renown'd,An' manly preachers.Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd(Which gies you honour)Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,An' winning manner.Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,An' if impertinent I've been,Impute it not, good Sir, in aneWhase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,But to his utmost would befriendOught that belang'd ye."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 677,
        ""poem.id"": 677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On John Rankine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 678,
        ""poem.id"": 678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On The Author's Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""679"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 679,
        ""poem.id"": 679,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson, Brewer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""680"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 680,
        ""poem.id"": 680,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Inscribed In A Lady's Pocket Almanack"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""681"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 681,
        ""poem.id"": 681,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment—altho' He Has Left Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""682"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 682,
        ""poem.id"": 682,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Second Epistle To J. Lapraik"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stakeAn' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,This hour on e'enin's edge I take,To own I'm debtorTo honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,For his kind letter.Forjesket sair, with weary legs,Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,Or dealing thro' amang the naigsTheir ten-hours' bite,My awkart Muse sair pleads and begsI would na write.The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,She's saft at best an' something lazy:Quo' she, \"Ye ken we've been sae busyThis month an' mair,That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,An' something sair.\"Her dowff excuses pat me mad;\"Conscience,\" says I, \"ye thowless jade!I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,This vera night;So dinna ye affront your trade,But rhyme it right.\"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,Roose you sae weel for your deserts,In terms sae friendly;Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your partsAn' thank him kindly?\"Sae I gat paper in a blink,An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:Quoth I, \"Before I sleep a wink,I vow I'll close it;An' if ye winna mak it clink,By Jove, I'll prose it!\"Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whetherIn rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither;Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,Let time mak proof;But I shall scribble down some bletherJust clean aff-loof.My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;Come, kittle up your moorland harpWi' gleesome touch!Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;She's but a bitch.She 's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;But, by the L—d, tho' I should begWi' lyart pow,I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,As lang's I dow!Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmerI've seen the bud upon the timmer,Still persecuted by the limmerFrae year to year;But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,I, Rob, am here.Do ye envy the city gent,Behint a kist to lie an' sklent;Or pursue-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.An' muckle wame,In some bit brugh to representA bailie's name?Or is't the paughty, feudal thane,Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane,Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,But lordly stalks;While caps and bonnets aff are taen,As by he walks?\"O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,Then turn me, if thou please, adrift,Thro' Scotland wide;Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,In a' their pride!\"Were this the charter of our state,\"On pain o' hell be rich an' great,\"Damnation then would be our fate,Beyond remead;But, thanks to heaven, that's no the gateWe learn our creed.For thus the royal mandate ran,When first the human race began;\"The social, friendly, honest man,Whate'er he be—'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,And none but he.\"O mandate glorious and divine!The ragged followers o' the Nine,Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shineIn glorious light,While sordid sons o' Mammon's lineAre dark as night!Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,Their worthless nievefu' of a soulMay in some future carcase howl,The forest's fright;Or in some day-detesting owlMay shun the light.Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,To reach their native, kindred skies,And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,In some mild sphere;Still closer knit in friendship's ties,Each passing year!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 683,
        ""poem.id"": 683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Captain's Lady"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 684,
        ""poem.id"": 684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THE WIND blew hollow frae the hills,By fits the sun's departing beamLook'd on the fading yellow woods,That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,Laden with years and meikle pain,In loud lament bewail'd his lord,Whom Death had all untimely ta'en.He lean'd him to an ancient aik,Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;His locks were bleached white with time,His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!And as he touch'd his trembling harp,And as he tun'd his doleful sang,The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,To Echo bore the notes alang.\"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,The reliques o' the vernal queir!Ye woods that shed on a' the windsThe honours of the agèd year!A few short months, and glad and gay,Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;But nocht in all-revolving timeCan gladness bring again to me.\"I am a bending agèd tree,That long has stood the wind and rain;But now has come a cruel blast,And my last hald of earth is gane;Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;But I maun lie before the storm,And ithers plant them in my room.\"I've seen sae mony changefu' years,On earth I am a stranger grown:I wander in the ways of men,Alike unknowing, and unknown:Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd,I bear alane my lade o' care,For silent, low, on beds of dust,Lie a' that would my sorrows share.\"And last, (the sum of a' my griefs!)My noble master lies in clay;The flow'r amang our barons bold,His country's pride, his country's stay:In weary being now I pine,For a' the life of life is dead,And hope has left may aged ken,On forward wing for ever fled.\"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!The voice of woe and wild despair!Awake, resound thy latest lay,Then sleep in silence evermair!And thou, my last, best, only, friend,That fillest an untimely tomb,Accept this tribute from the BardThou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom.\"In Poverty's low barren vale,Thick mists obscure involv'd me round;Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,Nae ray of fame was to be found:Thou found'st me, like the morning sunThat melts the fogs in limpid air,The friendless bard and rustic songBecame alike thy fostering care.\"O! why has worth so short a date,While villains ripen grey with time?Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,Fall in bold manhood's hardy primWhy did I live to see that day—A day to me so full of woe?O! had I met the mortal shaftThat laid my benefactor low!\"The bridegroom may forget the brideWas made his wedded wife yestreen;The monarch may forget the crownThat on his head an hour has been;The mother may forget the childThat smiles sae sweetly on her knee;But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,And a' that thou hast done for me!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 685,
        ""poem.id"": 685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written Under The Picture Of Miss Burns"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""686"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 686,
        ""poem.id"": 686,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On An Innkeeper (&Quot;The Marquis&Quot;)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""687"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 687,
        ""poem.id"": 687,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram—thanks For A National Victory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""688"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 688,
        ""poem.id"": 688,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:34:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle From Esopus To Maria"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FROM those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells;Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,And deal from iron hands the spare repast;Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin,Blush at the curious stranger peeping in;Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,Resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more;Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing,Beat hemp for others, riper for the string:From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.\"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!\"'Tis real hangmen real scourges bear!Prepare Maria, for a horrid taleWill turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,By barber woven, and by barber sold,Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,Like hoary bristles to erect and stare.The hero of the mimic scene, no moreI start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;Or, haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of armsIn Highland Bonnet, woo Malvina's charms;While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,And steal from me Maria's prying eye.Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress,Now prouder still, Maria's temples press;I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,And call each coxcomb to the wordy war:I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan'd lines,For other wars, where he a hero shines:The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs, to displayThat veni, vidi, vici, is his way:The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks,And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks:Though there, his heresies in Church and StateMight well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,And dares the public like a noontide sun.What scandal called Maria's jaunty staggerThe ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?Whose spleen (e'en worse than Burns' venom, whenHe dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)—Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre-divineThe idiot strum of Vanity bemus'd,And even the abuse of Poesy abus'd?—Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, madeFor motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed?A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose!In durance vile here must I wake and weep,And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep;That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,And make a vast monopoly of hell?Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse;The Vices also, must they club their curse?Or must no tiny sin to others fall,Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hurls—Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,A wit in folly, and a fool in wit!Who says that fool alone is not thy due,And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,And dare the war with all of woman born:For who can write and speak as thou and I?My periods that deciphering defy,And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""689"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 689,
        ""poem.id"": 689,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prologue, Spoken By Mr. Woods At Edinburgh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHEN, by a generous Public's kind acclaim,That dearest meed is granted—honest fame;Waen here your favour is the actor's lot,Nor even the man in private life forgot;What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue's glow,But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng,It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song;But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar,For genius, learning high, as great in war.Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear!Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear?Where every science, every nobler art,That can inform the mind or mend the heart,Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam;Here History paints with elegance and forceThe tide of Empire's fluctuating course;Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan,And Harley rouses all the God in man.When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit uniteWith manly lore, or female beauty bright,(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and graceCan only charm us in the second place),Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,As on this night, I've met these judges here!But still the hope Experience taught to live,Equal to judge—you're candid to forgive.No hundred-headed riot here we meet,With decency and law beneath his feet;Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name:Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving handHas oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land!Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire;May every son be worthy of his sire;Firm may she rise, with generous disdainAt Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain;Still Self-dependent in her native shore,Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""690"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 690,
        ""poem.id"": 690,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Second Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,About to beg a pass for leave to beg;Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest):Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?(It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale)And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign;Of thy caprice maternal I complain;The lion and the bull thy care have found,One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground;Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell;Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell;Thy minions kings defend, control, devour,In all th' omnipotence of rule and power;Foxes and statesmen subtile wiles ensure;The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug;Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,Her tongue and eyes—her dreaded spear and darts.But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—the Bard!A thing unteachable in world's skill,And half an idiot too, more helpless still:No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,And those, alas! not, Amalthea's horn:No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur;In naked feeling, and in aching pride,He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side:Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.Critics—appall'd, I venture on the name;Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,By blockheads' daring into madness stung;His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear;Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life:Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd,Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,Dead even resentment for his injur'd page,He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd,For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast;By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.O Dulness! portion of the truly blest!Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremesOf Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.If mantling high she fills the golden cup,With sober selfish ease they sip it up;Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,They only wonder \"some folks\" do not starve.The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.When disappointments snaps the clue of hope,And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,And just conclude that \"fools are fortune's care.\"So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train,Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;In equanimity they never dwell,By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell.I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!Already one strong hold of hope is lost—Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears,And left us darkling in a world of tears):O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r!Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare!Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown,And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!May bliss domestic smooth his private path;Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""691"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 691,
        ""poem.id"": 691,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gowden Locks Of Anna"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""692"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 692,
        ""poem.id"": 692,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fête Champêtre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O WHA will to Saint Stephen's House,To do our errands there, man?O wha will to Saint Stephen's HouseO' th' merry lads of Ayr, man?Or will we send a man o' law?Or will we send a sodger?Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'The meikle Ursa-Major? 1Come, will ye court a noble lord,Or buy a score o'lairds, man?For worth and honour pawn their word,Their vote shall be Glencaird's, 2 man.Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,Anither gies them clatter:Annbank, 3 wha guessed the ladies' taste,He gies a Fête Champêtre.When Love and Beauty heard the news,The gay green woods amang, man;Where, gathering flowers, and busking bowers,They heard the blackbird's sang, man:A vow, they sealed it with a kiss,Sir Politics to fetter;As their's alone, the patent bliss,To hold a Fête Champêtre.Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wingO'er hill and dale she flew, man;Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:She summon'd every social sprite,That sports by wood or water,On th' bonie banks of Ayr to meet,And keep this Fête Champêtre.Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew,Were bound to stakes like kye, man,And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu',Clamb up the starry sky, man:Reflected beams dwell in the streams,Or down the current shatter;The western breeze steals thro'the trees,To view this Fête Champêtre.How many a robe sae gaily floats!What sparkling jewels glance, man!To Harmony's enchanting notes,As moves the mazy dance, man.The echoing wood, the winding flood,Like Paradise did glitter,When angels met, at Adam's yett,To hold their Fête Champêtre.When Politics came there, to mixAnd make his ether-stane, man!He circled round the magic ground,But entrance found he nane, man:He blush'd for shame, he quat his name,Forswore it, every letter,Wi' humble prayer to join and shareThis festive Fête Champêtre."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""693"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 693,
        ""poem.id"": 693,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment—wee Willie Gray"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""694"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 694,
        ""poem.id"": 694,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Mr. M'Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""695"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 695,
        ""poem.id"": 695,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq."",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""696"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 696,
        ""poem.id"": 696,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""697"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 697,
        ""poem.id"": 697,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hey, The Dusty Miller"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""698"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 698,
        ""poem.id"": 698,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mauchline Lady: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""699"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 699,
        ""poem.id"": 699,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To John Rankine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!There's mony godly folks are thinkin,Your dreams and tricksWill send you, Korah-like, a-sinkinStraught to auld Nick's.Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants,And in your wicked, drucken rants,Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,An' fill them fou;And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,Are a' seen thro'.Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!That holy robe, O dinna tear it!Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it—The lads in black;But your curst wit, when it comes near it,Rives't aff their back.Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithingO' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naethingTo ken them byFrae ony unregenerate heathen,Like you or I.I've sent you here some rhyming ware,A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,I will expect,Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,And no neglect.Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,An' danc'd my fill!I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,At Bunker's Hill.'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun,An' brought a paitrick to the grun'—A bonie hen;And, as the twilight was begun,Thought nane wad ken.The poor, wee thing was little hurt;I straikit it a wee for sport,Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;But, Deil-ma-care!Somebody tells the poacher-courtThe hale affair.Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,That sic a hen had got a shot;I was suspected for the plot;I scorn'd to lie;So gat the whissle o' my groat,An' pay't the fee.But by my gun, o' guns the wale,An' by my pouther an' my hail,An' by my hen, an' by her tail,I vow an' swear!The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,For this, niest year.As soon's the clockin-time is by,An' the wee pouts begun to cry,Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' byFor my gowd guinea,Tho' I should herd the buckskin kyeFor't in Virginia.Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,But twa-three draps about the wame,Scarce thro' the feathers;An' baith a yellow George to claim,An' thole their blethers!It pits me aye as mad's a hare;So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;But pennyworths again is fair,When time's expedient:Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,Your most obedient."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""700"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 700,
        ""poem.id"": 700,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet To R. Graham, Esq., On Receiving A Favour"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""701"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 701,
        ""poem.id"": 701,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Craigieburn Wood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""702"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 702,
        ""poem.id"": 702,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On William Hood, Senior"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""703"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 703,
        ""poem.id"": 703,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph For Mr. William Michie, Schoolmaster"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""704"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 704,
        ""poem.id"": 704,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:35:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More's"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""705"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 705,
        ""poem.id"": 705,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram To Miss Jean Scott"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/11/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""706"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 706,
        ""poem.id"": 706,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/11/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""707"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 707,
        ""poem.id"": 707,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Election Ballad For Westerha'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18702"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18702,
        ""poem.id"": 18702,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Alex. Cunningham, Esq., Writer, Edinburgh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18711"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18711,
        ""poem.id"": 18711,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To John Kennedy, Dumfries House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18725"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18725,
        ""poem.id"": 18725,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, Recommending A Boy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18736"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18736,
        ""poem.id"": 18736,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18737"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18737,
        ""poem.id"": 18737,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—in The Character Of A Ruined Farmer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18738"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18738,
        ""poem.id"": 18738,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written In Friars' Carse Hermitage (Second Version)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THOU whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deckt in silken stole,Grave these counsels on thy soul.Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night,—in darkness lost;Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,Fear not clouds will always lour.As Youth and Love with sprightly dance,Beneath thy morning star advance,Pleasure with her siren airMay delude the thoughtless pair;Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup,Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.As thy day grows warm and high,Life's meridian flaming nigh,Dost thou spurn the humble vale?Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?Check thy climbing step, elate,Evils lurk in felon wait:Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold,Soar around each cliffy hold!While cheerful Peace, with linnet song,Chants the lowly dells among.As the shades of ev'ning close,Beck'ning thee to long repose;As life itself becomes disease,Seek the chimney-nook of ease;There ruminate with sober thought,On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought,And teach the sportive younkers round,Saws of experience, sage and sound:Say, man's true, genuine estimate,The grand criterion of his fate,Is not,—Arth thou high or low?Did thy fortune ebb or flow?Did many talents gild thy span?Or frugal Nature grudge thee one?Tell them, and press it on their mind,As thou thyself must shortly find,The smile or frown of awful Heav'n,To virtue or to Vice is giv'n,Say, to be just, and kind, and wise—There solid self-enjoyment lies;That foolish, selfish, faithless waysLead to be wretched, vile, and base.Thus resign'd and quiet, creepTo the bed of lasting sleep,—Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,Night, where dawn shall never break,Till future life, future no more,To light and joy the good restore,To light and joy unknown before.Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide!Quod the Beadsman of Nithside."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18739"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18739,
        ""poem.id"": 18739,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram—the Raptures Of Folly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18740"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18740,
        ""poem.id"": 18740,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—it Was A' For Our Rightfu' King"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18741"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18741,
        ""poem.id"": 18741,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To Dr. Blacklock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""ELLISLAND, 21st Oct., 1789.WOW, but your letter made me vauntie!And are ye hale, and weel and cantie?I ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntieWad bring ye to:Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye!And then ye'll do.The ill-thief blaw the Heron south!And never drink be near his drouth!He tauld myself by word o' mouth,He'd tak my letter;I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,And bade nae better.But aiblins, honest Master HeronHad, at the time, some dainty fair oneTo ware this theologic care on,And holy study;And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,E'en tried the body.But what d'ye think, my trusty fere,I'm turned a gauger—Peace be here!Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,Ye'll now disdain me!And then my fifty pounds a yearWill little gain me.Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,Wha, by Castalia's wimplin streamies,Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,Ye ken, ye ken,That strang necessity supreme is'Mang sons o' men.I hae a wife and twa wee laddies;They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—I need na vauntBut I'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,Before they want.Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!I'm weary sick o't late and air!Not but I hae a richer shareThan mony ithers;But why should ae man better fare,And a' men brithers?Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wanA lady fair:Wha does the utmost that he can,Will whiles do mair.But to conclude my silly rhyme(I'm scant o' verse and scant o' time),To make a happy fireside climeTo weans and wife,That's the true pathos and sublimeOf human life.My compliments to sister Beckie,And eke the same to honest Lucky;I wat she is a daintie chuckie,As e'er tread clay;And gratefully, my gude auld cockie,I'm yours for aye.ROBERT BURNS."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18742"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18742,
        ""poem.id"": 18742,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:43:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—crowdie Ever Mair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18743"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18743,
        ""poem.id"": 18743,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription At Friars' Carse Hermitage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18744"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18744,
        ""poem.id"": 18744,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram Addressed To An Artist"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18745"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18745,
        ""poem.id"": 18745,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—o May, Thy Morn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18746"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18746,
        ""poem.id"": 18746,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To Major Logan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!Tho' fortune's road be rough an' hillyTo every fiddling, rhyming billie,We never heed,But take it like the unback'd filly,Proud o' her speed.When, idly goavin', whiles we saunter,Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,Some black bog-hole,Arrests us; then the scathe an' banterWe're forced to thole.Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,To cheer you through the weary widdleO' this wild warl'.Until you on a crummock driddle,A grey hair'd carl.Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,And screw your temper-pins aboonA fifth or mairThe melancholious, lazy croonO' cankrie care.May still your life from day to day,Nae \"lente largo\" in the play,But \"allegretto forte\" gay,Harmonious flow,A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—Encore! Bravo!A blessing on the cheery gangWha dearly like a jig or sang,An' never think o' right an' wrangBy square an' rule,But, as the clegs o' feeling stang,Are wise or fool.My hand-waled curse keep hard in chaseThe harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,Wha count on poortith as disgrace;Their tuneless hearts,May fireside discords jar a baseTo a' their parts.But come, your hand, my careless brither,I' th' ither warl', if there's anither,An' that there is, I've little switherAbout the matter;We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,I'se ne'er bid better.We've faults and failings—granted clearly,We're frail backsliding mortals merely,Eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerlyFor our grand fa';But still, but still, I like them dearly—God bless them a'!Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkersHae put me hyte,And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,Wi' girnin'spite.By by yon moon!—and that's high swearin—An' every star within my hearin!An' by her een wha was a dear ane!I'll ne'er forget;I hope to gie the jads a clearinIn fair play yet.My loss I mourn, but not repent it;I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it;Ance to the Indies I were wonted,Some cantraip hourBy some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted;Then vive l'amour!Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,To sentimental sister Susie,And honest Lucky; no to roose you,Ye may be proud,That sic a couple Fate allows ye,To grace your blood.Nae mair at present can I measure,An' trowth my rhymin ware's nae treasure;But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,Be't light, be't dark,Sir Bard will do himself the pleasureTo call at Park.ROBERT BURNS.Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18747"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18747,
        ""poem.id"": 18747,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—gudewife, Count The Lawin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18748"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18748,
        ""poem.id"": 18748,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Of John M'Murdo, Esq."",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18749"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18749,
        ""poem.id"": 18749,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—behold The Hour, Etc. (Second Version)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18750"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18750,
        ""poem.id"": 18750,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegy On The Year 1788"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18751"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18751,
        ""poem.id"": 18751,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—my Hoggie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18752"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18752,
        ""poem.id"": 18752,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Libeller's Self-Reproof"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18753"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18753,
        ""poem.id"": 18753,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On John Busby, Esq., Tinwald Downs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18754"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18754,
        ""poem.id"": 18754,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:44:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription On Mr. Syme's Crystal Goblet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18755"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18755,
        ""poem.id"": 18755,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mr. William Smellie: A Sketch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18756"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18756,
        ""poem.id"": 18756,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Charms Of Lovely Davies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18757"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18757,
        ""poem.id"": 18757,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""AULD comrade dear, and brither sinner,How's a' the folk about Glenconner?How do you this blae eastlin wind,That's like to blaw a body blind?For me, my faculties are frozen,My dearest member nearly dozen'd.I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,An' Reid, to common sense appealing.Philosophers have fought and wrangled,An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,And in the depth of science mir'd,To common sense they now appeal,What wives and wabsters see and feel.But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,Peruse them, an' return them quickly:For now I'm grown sae cursed douceI pray and ponder butt the house;My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin',Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston,Till by an' by, if I haud on,I'll grunt a real gospel-groan:Already I begin to try it,To cast my e'en up like a pyet,When by the gun she tumbles o'erFlutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:Sae shortly you shall see me bright,A burning an' a shining light.My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,The ace an' wale of honest men:When bending down wi' auld grey hairsBeneath the load of years and cares,May He who made him still support him,An' views beyond the grave comfort him;His worthy fam'ly far and near,God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!My auld schoolfellow, Preacher Willie,The manly tar, my mason-billie,And Auchenbay, I wish him joy,If he's a parent, lass or boy,May he be dad, and Meg the mither,Just five-and-forty years thegither!And no forgetting wabster Charlie,I'm tauld he offers very fairly.An' Lord, remember singing Sannock,Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock!And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,Since she is fitted to her fancy,An' her kind stars hae airted till hergA guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.My kindest, best respects, I sen' it,To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet:Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;To grant a heart is fairly civil,But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,May guardian angels tak a spell,An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:But first, before you see heaven's glory,May ye get mony a merry story,Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you:For my sake, this I beg it o' you,Assist poor Simson a' ye can,Ye'll fin; him just an honest man;Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,Your's, saint or sinner,ROB THE RANTER."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18758"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18758,
        ""poem.id"": 18758,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—fragment—leezie Lindsay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18759"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18759,
        ""poem.id"": 18759,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle On J. Lapraik"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,An' morning poussie whiddin seen,Inspire my muse,This freedom, in an unknown frien',I pray excuse.On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin,To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;And there was muckle fun and jokin,Ye need na doubt;At length we had a hearty yokinAt sang about.There was ae sang, amang the rest,Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,That some kind husband had addrestTo some sweet wife;It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,A' to the life.I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;Thought I \"Can this be Pope, or Steele,Or Beattie's wark?\"They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chielAbout Muirkirk.It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,An' sae about him there I speir't;Then a' that kent him round declar'dHe had ingine;That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,It was sae fine:That, set him to a pint of ale,An' either douce or merry tale,Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,Or witty catches—'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,He had few matches.Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,Or die a cadger pownie's death,At some dyke-back,A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,To hear your crack.But, first an' foremost, I should tell,Amaist as soon as I could spell,I to the crambo-jingle fell;Tho' rude an' rough—Yet crooning to a body's sel'Does weel eneugh.I am nae poet, in a sense;But just a rhymer like by chance,An' hae to learning nae pretence;Yet, what the matter?Whene'er my muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.Your critic-folk may cock their nose,And say, \"How can you e'er propose,You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,To mak a sang?\"But, by your leaves, my learned foes,Ye're maybe wrang.What's a' your jargon o' your schools—Your Latin names for horns an' stools?If honest Nature made you fools,What sairs your grammars?Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,Or knappin-hammers.A set o' dull, conceited hashesConfuse their brains in college classes!They gang in stirks, and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An' syne they think to climb ParnassusBy dint o' Greek!Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,That's a' the learning I desire;Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mireAt pleugh or cart,My muse, tho' hamely in attire,May touch the heart.O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,Or Fergusson's the bauld an' slee,Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,If I can hit it!That would be lear eneugh for me,If I could get it.Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few;Yet, if your catalogue be fu',I'se no insist:But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,I'm on your list.I winna blaw about mysel,As ill I like my fauts to tell;But friends, an' folk that wish me well,They sometimes roose me;Tho' I maun own, as mony stillAs far abuse me.There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!For mony a plack they wheedle frae meAt dance or fair;Maybe some ither thing they gie me,They weel can spare.But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,I should be proud to meet you there;We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,If we forgather;An' hae a swap o' rhymin-wareWi' ane anither.The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,An' kirsen him wi' reekin water;Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,To cheer our heart;An' faith, we'se be acquainted betterBefore we part.Awa ye selfish, war'ly race,Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,Ev'n love an' friendship should give placeTo catch-the-plack!I dinna like to see your face,Nor hear your crack.But ye whom social pleasure charmsWhose hearts the tide of kindness warms,Who hold your being on the terms,\"Each aid the others,\"Come to my bowl, come to my arms,My friends, my brothers!But, to conclude my lang epistle,As my auld pen's worn to the gristle,Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,Who am, most fervent,While I can either sing or whistle,Your friend and servant."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18760"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18760,
        ""poem.id"": 18760,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines To John M'Murdo Of Drumlanrig"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18761"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18761,
        ""poem.id"": 18761,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—poortith Cauld And Restless Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18762"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18762,
        ""poem.id"": 18762,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Dumfries Volunteers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18763"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18763,
        ""poem.id"": 18763,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Burlesque Lament Fo Wm. Creech's Absence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""AULD chuckie Reekie's 1 sair distrest,Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,Nae joy her bonie buskit nestCan yield ava,Her darling bird that she lo'es best—Willie's awa!O Willie was a witty wight,And had o' things an unco' sleight,Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,And trig an' braw:But now they'll busk her like a fright,—Willie's awa!The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd,The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;They durst nae mair than he allow'd,That was a law:We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd;Willie's awa!Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,Frae colleges and boarding schools,May sprout like simmer puddock-stoolsIn glen or shaw;He wha could brush them down to mools—Willie's awa!The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumerMay mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;He was a dictionar and grammarAmong them a';I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer;Willie's awa!Nae mair we see his levee doorPhilosophers and poets pour,And toothy critics by the score,In bloody raw!The adjutant o' a' the core—Willie's awa!Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;Mackenzie, Stewart, such a braceAs Rome ne'er saw;They a' maun meet some ither place,Willie's awa!Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken,He cheeps like some bewilder'd chickenScar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin,By hoodie-craw;Grieg's gien his heart an unco kickin,Willie's awa!Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;Ilk self-conceited critic skellumHis quill may draw;He wha could brawlie ward their bellum—Willie's awa!Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,While tempests blaw;But every joy and pleasure's fled,Willie's awa!May I be Slander's common speech;A text for Infamy to preach;And lastly, streekit out to bleachIn winter snaw;When I forget thee, Willie Creech,Tho' far awa!May never wicked Fortune touzle him!May never wicked men bamboozle him!Until a pow as auld's MethusalemHe canty claw!Then to the blessed new Jerusalem,Fleet wing awa!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18764"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18764,
        ""poem.id"": 18764,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18765"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18765,
        ""poem.id"": 18765,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—i'Ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18766"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18766,
        ""poem.id"": 18766,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:45:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Extempore Reply To An Invitation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18767"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18767,
        ""poem.id"": 18767,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:46:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18768"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18768,
        ""poem.id"": 18768,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:46:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocksShun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan;The hollow caves return a hollow moan.Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly;Where, to the whistling blast and water's roar,Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod:Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow,She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe.Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,Now, gay in hope, explore the paths of men:See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,Rousing elate in these degenerate times,View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:While subtle Litigation's pliant tongueThe life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours the unpitied wail!Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains,Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains:Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,To mourn the woes my country must endure—That would degenerate ages cannot cure."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18769"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18769,
        ""poem.id"": 18769,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:35:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—bonie Dundee: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18770"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18770,
        ""poem.id"": 18770,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:46:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—lady Onlie, Honest Luckie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18771"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18771,
        ""poem.id"": 18771,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:47:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Versicles On Sign-Posts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18772"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18772,
        ""poem.id"": 18772,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:35:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—kenmure's On And Awa, Willie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18773"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18773,
        ""poem.id"": 18773,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:47:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18774"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18774,
        ""poem.id"": 18774,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:47:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—raging Fortune: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18775"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18775,
        ""poem.id"": 18775,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:47:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rantin Dog, The Daddie O'T"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18776"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18776,
        ""poem.id"": 18776,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:48:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—my Nanie, O!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18777"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18777,
        ""poem.id"": 18777,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:48:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—carle, An' The King Come"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18778"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18778,
        ""poem.id"": 18778,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:48:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—tam Glen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18779"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18779,
        ""poem.id"": 18779,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:48:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18780"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18780,
        ""poem.id"": 18780,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:48:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare,Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air,And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train; 1Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well, 2Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 3Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky,The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.The paly moon rose in the livid east.And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately formIn weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,And mix'd her wailings with the raving stormWild to my heart the filial pulses glow,'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd:Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.\"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!\"With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried;\"Low lies the hand oft was stretch'd to save,Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.\"A weeping country joins a widow's tear;The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;The drooping arts surround their patron's bier;And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!\"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow:But ah! how hope is born but to expire!Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.\"My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung,While empty greatness saves a worthless name?No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,And future ages hear his growing fame.\"And I will join a mother's tender cares,Thro' future times to make his virtues last;That distant years may boast of other Blairs!\"—She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18781"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18781,
        ""poem.id"": 18781,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:35:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Braes O' Killiecrankie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18782"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18782,
        ""poem.id"": 18782,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On The Fall Of Fyers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18783"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18783,
        ""poem.id"": 18783,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On Miss Fontenelle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18784"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18784,
        ""poem.id"": 18784,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Inscribed Under Fergusson's Portrait"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18785"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18785,
        ""poem.id"": 18785,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Inscribed Under Fergusson's Portrait"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18786"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18786,
        ""poem.id"": 18786,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18787"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18787,
        ""poem.id"": 18787,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Battle Of Sherramuir"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""\"O CAM ye here the fight to shun,Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,Or did the battle see, man?\"I saw the battle, sair and teugh,And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh;My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,To hear the thuds, and see the cludsO' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.La, la, la, la, &c.The red-coat lads, wi' black cockauds,To meet them were na slaw, man;They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'dAnd mony a bouk did fa', man:The great Argyle led on his files,I wat they glanced twenty miles;They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,They hack'd and hash'd, while braid-swords, clash'd,And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,Till fey men died awa, man.La, la, la, la, &c.But had ye seen the philibegs,And skyrin tartan trews, man;When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs,And covenant True-blues, man:In lines extended lang and large,When baiginets o'erpower'd the targe,And thousands hasten'd to the charge;Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheathDrew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,They fled like frighted dows, man!La, la, la, la, &c.\"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?The chase gaed frae the north, man;I saw mysel, they did pursue,The horsemen back to Forth, man;And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,They took the brig wi' a' their might,And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;But, cursed lot! the gates were shut;And mony a huntit poor red-coat,For fear amaist did swarf, man!\"La, la, la, la, &c.My sister Kate cam up the gateWi' crowdie unto me, man;She swoor she saw some rebels runTo Perth unto Dundee, man;Their left-hand general had nae skill;The Angus lads had nae gude willThat day their neibors' blude to spill;For fear, for foes, that they should loseTheir cogs o' brose; they scar'd at blows,And hameward fast did flee, man.La, la, la, la, &c.They've lost some gallant gentlemen,Amang the Highland clans, man!I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man,Now wad ye sing this double fight,Some fell for wrang, and some for right;But mony bade the world gude-night;Say, pell and mell, wi' muskets' knellHow Tories fell, and Whigs to hellFlew off in frighted bands, man!La, la, la, la, &c."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18788"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18788,
        ""poem.id"": 18788,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses Inscribed Under A Noble Earl's Picture"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18789"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18789,
        ""poem.id"": 18789,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:49:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On The Said Occasion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18790"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18790,
        ""poem.id"": 18790,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:50:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Gallant Weaver"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18791"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18791,
        ""poem.id"": 18791,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:50:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ballad On Mr. Heron's Election—no. 3"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""'TWAS in the seventeen hunder yearO' grace, and ninety-five,That year I was the wae'est manOf ony man alive.In March the three-an'-twentieth morn,The sun raise clear an' bright;But oh! I was a waefu' man,Ere to-fa' o' the night.Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land,Wi' equal right and fame,And thereto was his kinsmen join'd,The Murray's noble name.Yerl Galloway's man o' men was I,And chief o' Broughton's host;So twa blind beggars, on a string,The faithfu' tyke will trust.But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke,And Broughton's wi' the slain,And I my ancient craft may try,Sin' honesty is gane.'Twas by the banks o' bonie Dee,Beside Kirkcudbright's towers,The Stewart and the Murray there,Did muster a' their powers.Then Murray on the auld grey yaud,Wi' winged spurs did ride,That auld grey yaud a' Nidsdale rade,He staw upon Nidside.And there had na been the Yerl himsel,O there had been nae play;But Garlies was to London gane,And sae the kye might stray.And there was Balmaghie, I ween,In front rank he wad shine;But Balmaghie had better beenDrinkin' Madeira wine.And frae Glenkens cam to our aidA chief o' doughty deed;In case that worth should wanted be,O' Kenmure we had need.And by our banners march'd Muirhead,And Buittle was na slack;Whase haly priesthood nane could stain,For wha could dye the black?And there was grave squire Cardoness,Look'd on till a' was done;Sae in the tower o' CardonessA howlet sits at noon.And there led I the Bushby clan,My gamesome billie, Will,And my son Maitland, wise as brave,My footsteps follow'd still.The Douglas and the Heron's name,We set nought to their score;The Douglas and the Heron's name,Had felt our weight before.But Douglasses o' weight had we,The pair o' lusty lairds,For building cot-houses sae fam'd,And christenin' kail-yards.And there Redcastle drew his sword,That ne'er was stain'd wi' gore,Save on a wand'rer lame and blind,To drive him frae his door.And last cam creepin' Collieston,Was mair in fear than wrath;Ae knave was constant in his mind—To keep that knave frae scaith."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18792"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18792,
        ""poem.id"": 18792,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:50:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18793"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18793,
        ""poem.id"": 18793,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:50:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On The Departed Regency Bill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""DAUGHTER of Chaos' doting years,Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears,Whether thy airy, insubstantial shade(The rights of sepulture now duly paid)Spread abroad its hideous formOn the roaring civil storm,Deafening din and warring rageFactions wild with factions wage;Or under-ground, deep-sunk, profound,Among the demons of the earth,With groans that make the mountains shake,Thou mourn thy ill-starr'd, blighted birth;Or in the uncreated Void,Where seeds of future being fight,With lessen'd step thou wander wide,To greet thy Mother—Ancient Night.And as each jarring, monster-mass is past,Fond recollect what once thou wast:In manner due, beneath this sacred oak,Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke!By a Monarch's heaven-struck fate,By a disunited State,By a generous Prince's wrongs.By a Senate's strife of tongues,By a Premier's sullen pride,Louring on the changing tide;By dread Thurlow's powers to aweRhetoric, blasphemy and law;By the turbulent ocean—A Nation's commotion,By the harlot-caressesOf borough addresses,By days few and evil,(Thy portion, poor devil!)By Power, Wealth, and Show,(The Gods by men adored,)By nameless Poverty,(Their hell abhorred,)By all they hope, by all they fear,Hear! and appear!Stare not on me, thou ghastly Power!Nor, grim with chained defiance, lour:No Babel-structure would I buildWhere, order exil'd from his native sway,Confusion may the REGENT-sceptre wield,While all would rule and none obey:Go, to the world of man relateThe story of thy sad, eventful fate;And call presumptuous Hope to hearAnd bid him check his blind career;And tell the sore-prest sons of Care,Never, never to despair!Paint Charles' speed on wings of fire,The object of his fond desire,Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand:Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band;Mark how they lift the joy-exulting voice,And how their num'rous creditors rejoice;But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise,Cry CONVALESCENCE! and the vision flies.Then next pourtray a dark'ning twilight gloom,Eclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn,While proud Ambition to th' untimely tombBy gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is borne:Paint ruin, in the shape of high D[undas]Gaping with giddy terror o'er the brow;In vain he struggles, the fates behind him press,And clam'rous hell yawns for her prey below:How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the skies!And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise!Again pronounce the powerful word;See Day, triumphant from the night, restored.Then know this truth, ye Sons of Men!(Thus ends thy moral tale,)Your darkest terrors may be vain,Your brightest hopes may fail."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18794"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18794,
        ""poem.id"": 18794,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-02-28 20:35:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode On The Departed Regency Bill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": """"
    },
    ""18795"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18795,
        ""poem.id"": 18795,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Banks O' Doon (First Version)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18796"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18796,
        ""poem.id"": 18796,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses To Collector Mitchell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18797"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18797,
        ""poem.id"": 18797,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18798"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18798,
        ""poem.id"": 18798,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—fragment—why Tell The Lover"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18799"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18799,
        ""poem.id"": 18799,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""491. Song—Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Chorus.—Lassie wi'the lint-white locks,Bonie lassie, artless lassie,Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks,Wilt thou be my Dearie, O?NOW Nature cleeds the flowery lea,And a' is young and sweet like thee,O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,And say thou'lt be my Dearie, O.Lassie wi' the, &c.The primrose bank, the wimpling burn,The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn,The wanton lambs at early morn,Shall welcome thee, my Dearie, O.Lassie wi' the, &c.And when the welcome simmer showerHas cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,We'll to the breathing woodbine bower,At sultry noon, my Dearie, O.Lassie wi' the, &c.When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,The weary shearer's hameward way,Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,And talk o' love, my Dearie, O.Lassie wi' the, &c.And when the howling wintry blastDisturbs my Lassie's midnight rest,Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,I'll comfort thee, my Dearie, O.Lassie wi' the, &c."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18800"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18800,
        ""poem.id"": 18800,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""320. Lines to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,To thee this votive offering I impart,The tearful tribute of a broken heart.The Friend thou valued'st, I, the Patron lov'd;His worth, his honour, all the world approved:We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,And tread the shadowy path to that dark world unknown."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18801"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18801,
        ""poem.id"": 18801,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""233. Song—O were I on Parnassus Hill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/30/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O, WERE I on Parnassus hill,Or had o' Helicon my fill,That I might catch poetic skill,To sing how dear I love thee!But Nith maun be my Muse's well,My Muse maun be thy bonie sel',On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,And write how dear I love thee.Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!For a' the lee-lang simmer's dayI couldna sing, I couldna say,How much, how dear, I love thee,I see thee dancing o'er the green,Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—By Heaven and Earth I love thee!By night, by day, a-field, at hame,The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame:And aye I muse and sing thy name—I only live to love thee.Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,Till my last weary sand was run;Till then—and then I love thee!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18802"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18802,
        ""poem.id"": 18802,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""381. Song—Fragment—No cold approach"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/1/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""NO cold approach, no altered mien,Just what would make suspicion start;No pause the dire extremes between,He made me blest—and broke my heart."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18803"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18803,
        ""poem.id"": 18803,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:51:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""523. Song—The Cooper o' Cuddy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/15/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Chorus—We'll hide the Cooper behint the door,Behint the door, behint the door,We'll hide the Cooper behint the door,And cover him under a mawn, O.THE COOPER o' Cuddy came here awa,He ca'd the girrs out o'er us a';An' our gudewife has gotten a ca',That's anger'd the silly gudeman O.We'll hide the Cooper, &c.He sought them out, he sought them in,Wi' deil hae her! an', deil hae him!But the body he was sae doited and blin',He wist na where he was gaun O.We'll hide the Cooper, &c.They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn,Till our gudeman has gotten the scorn;On ilka brow she's planted a horn,And swears that there they sall stan' O.We'll hide the Cooper, &c."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18804"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18804,
        ""poem.id"": 18804,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""329. Verses on the destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""AS on the banks o' wandering Nith,Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd,And traced its bonie howes and haughs,Where linties sang and lammies play'd,I sat me down upon a craig,And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,When from the eddying deep below,Up rose the genius of the stream.Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,And troubled, like his wintry wave,And deep, as sughs the boding windAmang his caves, the sigh he gave—\"And come ye here, my son,\" he cried,\"To wander in my birken shade?To muse some favourite Scottish theme,Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?\"There was a time, it's nae lang syne,Ye might hae seen me in my pride,When a' my banks sae bravely sawTheir woody pictures in my tide;When hanging beech and spreading elmShaded my stream sae clear and cool:And stately oaks their twisted armsThrew broad and dark across the pool;\"When, glinting thro' the trees, appear'dThe wee white cot aboon the mill,And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,That, slowly curling, clamb the hill.But now the cot is bare and cauld,Its leafy bield for ever gane,And scarce a stinted birk is leftTo shiver in the blast its lane.\"\"Alas!\" quoth I, \"what ruefu' chanceHas twin'd ye o' your stately trees?Has laid your rocky bosom bare—Has stripped the cleeding o' your braes?Was it the bitter eastern blast,That scatters blight in early spring?Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs,Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?\"\"Nae eastlin blast,\" the sprite replied;\"It blaws na here sae fierce and fell,And on my dry and halesome banksNae canker-worms get leave to dwell:Man! cruel man!\" the genius sighed—As through the cliffs he sank him down—\"The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees,That reptile wears a ducal crown.\" 1"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18805"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18805,
        ""poem.id"": 18805,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram—Divine Service at Lamington"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/30/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""AS cauld a wind as ever blew,A cauld kirk, an in't but few:As cauld a minister's e'er spak;Ye'se a' be het e'er I come back."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18806"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18806,
        ""poem.id"": 18806,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—Farewell thou stream that winding flows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/12/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flowsAround Eliza's dwelling;O mem'ry! spare the cruel thoesWithin my bosom swelling.Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chainAnd yet in secret languish;To feel a fire in every vein,Nor dare disclose my anguish.Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,I fain my griefs would cover;The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan,Betray the hapless lover.I know thou doom'st me to despair,Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;But, O Eliza, hear one prayer—For pity's sake forgive me!The music of thy voice I heard,Nor wist while it enslav'd me;I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,Till fears no more had sav'd me:Th' unwary sailor thus, aghastThe wheeling torrent viewing,'Mid circling horrors sinks at last,In overwhelming ruin."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18807"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18807,
        ""poem.id"": 18807,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""516. Song—I'll aye ca' in by yon town"",
        ""poem.date"": ""7/21/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Chorus—I'll aye ca' in by yon town,And by yon garden-green again;I'll aye ca' in by yon town,And see my bonie Jean again.THERE'S nane sall ken, there's nane can guessWhat brings me back the gate again,But she, my fairest faithfu' lass,And stownlins we sall meet again.I'll aye ca' in, &c.She'll wander by the aiken tree,When trystin time draws near again;And when her lovely form I see,O haith! she's doubly dear again.I'll aye ca' in, &c."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18808"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18808,
        ""poem.id"": 18808,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—clarina, Mistress Of My Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18809"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18809,
        ""poem.id"": 18809,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—phillis The Fair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18810"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18810,
        ""poem.id"": 18810,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sappho Redivivus: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""BY all I lov'd, neglected and forgot,No friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot;Shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest,The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest!Ev'n the poor súpport of my wretched life,Snatched by the violence of legal strife.Oft grateful for my very daily breadTo those my family's once large bounty fed;A welcome inmate at their homely fare,My griefs, my woes, my sighs, my tears they share:(Their vulgar souls unlike the souls refin'd,The fashioned marble of the polished mind).In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer,Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear;Above the world, on wings of Love, I rise—I know its worst, and can that worst despise;Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall,M[ontgomer]y, rich reward, o'erpays them all!Mild zephyrs waft thee to life's farthest shore,Nor think of me and my distress more,—Falsehood accurst! No! still I beg a place,Still near thy heart some little, little trace:For that dear trace the world I would resign:O let me live, and die, and think it mine!\"I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd cornBy driving winds the crackling flames are borne;\"Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night,Then bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight:In vain the laws their feeble force oppose,Chain'd at Love's feet, they groan, his vanquish'd foes.In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye,I dare not combat, but I turn and fly:Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire,Love grasps her scorpions—stifled they expire!Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone;Each thought intoxicated homage yields,And riots wanton in forbidden fields.By all on high adoring mortals know!By all the conscious villain fears below!By your dear self!—the last great oath I swear,Not life, nor soul, were ever half so dear!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18811"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18811,
        ""poem.id"": 18811,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—a Health To Ane I Loe Dear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18812"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18812,
        ""poem.id"": 18812,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:52:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O GOWDIE, terror o' the whigs,Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,Girns an' looks back,Wishing the ten Egyptian plaguesMay seize you quick.Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition!Wae's me, she's in a sad condition:Fye: bring Black Jock, 1 her state physician,To see her water;Alas, there's ground for great suspicionShe'll ne'er get better.Enthusiasm's past redemption,Gane in a gallopin' consumption:Not a' her quacks, wi' a' their gumption,Can ever mend her;Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,She'll soon surrender.Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,For every hole to get a stapple;But now she fetches at the thrapple,An' fights for breath;Haste, gie her name up in the chapel, 2Near unto death.It's you an' Taylor 3 are the chiefTo blame for a' this black mischief;But, could the L—d's ain folk get leave,A toom tar barrelAn' twa red peats wad bring relief,And end the quarrel.For me, my skill's but very sma',An' skill in prose I've nane ava';But quietlins-wise, between us twa,Weel may you speed!And tho' they sud your sair misca',Ne'er fash your head.E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;And still 'mang hands a hearty bickerO' something stout;It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,And helps his wit.There's naething like the honest nappy;Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy,'Tween morn and morn,As them wha like to taste the drappie,In glass or horn?I've seen me dazed upon a time,I scarce could wink or see a styme;Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,—Ought less is little—Then back I rattle on the rhyme,As gleg's a whittle."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18813"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18813,
        ""poem.id"": 18813,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On A Swearing Coxcomb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18814"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18814,
        ""poem.id"": 18814,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—montgomerie's Peggy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18815"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18815,
        ""poem.id"": 18815,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—fragment—damon And Sylvia"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18816"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18816,
        ""poem.id"": 18816,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18817"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18817,
        ""poem.id"": 18817,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses On Castle Gordon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18818"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18818,
        ""poem.id"": 18818,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!The meikle devil wi' a woodieHaurl thee hame to his black smiddie,O'er hurcheon hides,And like stock-fish come o'er his studdieWi' thy auld sides!He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,The ae best fellow e'er was born!Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn,By wood and wild,Where haply, Pity strays forlorn,Frae man exil'd.Ye hills, near neighbours o' the starns,That proudly cock your cresting cairns!Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,Where Echo slumbers!Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,My wailing numbers!Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!Ye haz'ly shaws and briery dens!Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,Wi' toddlin din,Or foaming, strang, wi' hasty stens,Frae lin to lin.Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see;Ye woodbines hanging bonilie,In scented bow'rs;Ye roses on your thorny tree,The first o' flow'rs.At dawn, when ev'ry grassy bladeDroops with a diamond at his head,At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,I' th' rustling gale,Ye maukins, whiddin thro' the glade,Come join my wail.Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;Ye curlews, calling thro' a clud;Ye whistling plover;And mourn, we whirring paitrick brood;He's gane for ever!Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;Ye fisher herons, watching eels;Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheelsCircling the lake;Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,Rair for his sake.Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day,'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay;And when ye wing your annual wayFrae our claud shore,Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,Wham we deplore.Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'rIn some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r,Sets up her horn,Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour,Till waukrife morn!O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!Oft have ye heard my canty strains;But now, what else for me remainsBut tales of woe;And frae my een the drapping rainsMaun ever flow.Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:Thou, Simmer, while each corny spearShoots up its head,Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear,For him that's dead!Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,In grief thy sallow mantle tear!Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the airThe roaring blast,Wide o'er the naked world declareThe worth we've lost!Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light!Mourn, Empress of the silent night!And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,My Matthew mourn!For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,Ne'er to return.O Henderson! the man! the brother!And art thou gone, and gone for ever!And hast thou crost that unknown river,Life's dreary bound!Like thee, where shall I find another,The world around!Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great,In a' the tinsel trash o' state!But by thy honest turf I'll wait,Thou man of worth!And weep the ae best fellow's fateE'er lay in earth."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18819"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18819,
        ""poem.id"": 18819,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ballad On Mr. Heron's Election—no. 2"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FY, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,For there will be bickerin' there;For Murray's light horse are to muster,And O how the heroes will swear!And there will be Murray, Commander,And Gordon, the battle to win;Like brothers they'll stand by each other,Sae knit in alliance and kin.And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,The tongue o' the trump to them a';An he get na Hell for his haddin',The Deil gets na justice ava.And there will be Kempleton's birkie,A boy no sae black at the bane;But as to his fine Nabob fortune,We'll e'en let the subject alane.And there will be Wigton's new Sheriff;Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped,She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,But, Lord! what's become o' the head?And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;A wight that will weather damnation,The Devil the prey will despise.And there will be Douglasses doughty,New christening towns far and near;Abjuring their democrat doings,By kissin' the —— o' a Peer:And there will be folk frae Saint Mary'sA house o' great merit and note;The deil ane but honours them highly—The deil ane will gie them his vote!And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous,Whose honour is proof to the storm,To save them from stark reprobation,He lent them his name in the Firm.And there will be lads o' the gospel,Muirhead wha's as gude as he's true;And there will be Buittle's Apostle,Wha's mair o' the black than the blue.And there will be Logan M'Dowall,Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there,And also the Wild Scot o' Galloway,Sogering, gunpowder Blair.But we winna mention Redcastle,The body, e'en let him escape!He'd venture the gallows for siller,An 'twere na the cost o' the rape.But where is the Doggerbank hero,That made \"Hogan Mogan\" to skulk?Poor Keith's gane to hell to be fuel,The auld rotten wreck of a Hulk.And where is our King's Lord Lieutenant,Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return?The birkie is gettin' his QuestionsTo say in Saint Stephen's the morn.But mark ye! there's trusty Kerroughtree,Whose honor was ever his law;If the Virtues were pack'd in a parcel,His worth might be sample for a';And strang an' respectfu's his backing,The maist o' the lairds wi' him stand;Nae gipsy-like nominal barons,Wha's property's paper—not land.And there, frae the Niddisdale borders,The Maxwells will gather in droves,Teugh Jockie, staunch Geordie, an' Wellwood,That griens for the fishes and loaves;And there will be Heron, the Major,Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys;Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,HIM, only it's justice to praise.And there will be maiden Kilkerran,And also Barskimming's gude Knight,And there will be roarin Birtwhistle,Yet luckily roars i' the right.And there'll be Stamp Office Johnie,(Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!)And there will be gay Cassencarry,And there'll be gleg Colonel Tam.And there'll be wealthy young Richard,Dame Fortune should hing by the neck,For prodigal, thriftless bestowing—His merit had won him respect.And there will be rich brother Nabobs,(Tho' Nabobs, yet men not the worst,)And there will be Collieston's whiskers,And Quintin—a lad o' the first.Then hey! the chaste Interest o' BroughtonAnd hey! for the blessin's 'twill bring;It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,In Sodom 'twould make him a king;And hey! for the sanctified Murray,Our land wha wi' chapels has stor'd;He founder'd his horse among harlots,But gied the auld naig to the Lord."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18820"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18820,
        ""poem.id"": 18820,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To John Maxwell, Esq., Of Terraughty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18821"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18821,
        ""poem.id"": 18821,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—blythe Hae I Been On Yon Hill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18822"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18822,
        ""poem.id"": 18822,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:53:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—kellyburn Braes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THERE lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;And he had a wife was the plague of his days,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;He met with the Devil, says, \"How do you fen?\"And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;\"For, savin your presence, to her ye're a saint,\"And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;\"But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,\"And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.\"O welcome most kindly!\" the blythe carl said,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;\"But if ye can match her ye're waur than ye're ca'd,\"And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.The Devil has got the auld wife on his back,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.He's carried her hame to his ain hallan door,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;Syne bade her gae in, for a b—, and a w—,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme:Turn out on her guard in the clap o' a hand,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;Whae'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa',Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;\"O help, maister, help, or she'll ruin us a'!\"And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;He pitied the man that was tied to a wife,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;He was not in wedlock, thank Heav'n, but in hell,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;And to her auld husband he's carried her back,And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life,Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;\"But ne'er was in hell till I met wi' a wife,\"And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18823"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18823,
        ""poem.id"": 18823,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18824"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18824,
        ""poem.id"": 18824,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—out Over The Forth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18825"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18825,
        ""poem.id"": 18825,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—down The Burn, Davie Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18826"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18826,
        ""poem.id"": 18826,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prayer—o Thou Dread Power"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18827"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18827,
        ""poem.id"": 18827,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—to Daunton Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18828"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18828,
        ""poem.id"": 18828,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—highland Harry Back Again"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18829"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18829,
        ""poem.id"": 18829,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I'Ll Go And Be A Sodger"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18830"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18830,
        ""poem.id"": 18830,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here's His Health In Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18831"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18831,
        ""poem.id"": 18831,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—my Native Land Sae Far Awa"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18832"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18832,
        ""poem.id"": 18832,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi' An Auld Man?"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18833"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18833,
        ""poem.id"": 18833,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:54:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—my Nanie's Awa"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18834"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18834,
        ""poem.id"": 18834,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scots Prologue For Mr. Sutherland"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,How this new play an' that new sang is comin?Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported?Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?For Comedy abroad he need to toil,A fool and knave are plants of every soil;Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece,To gather matter for a serious piece;There's themes enow in Caledonian story,Would shew the Tragic Muse in a' her glory.—Is there no daring Bard will rise and tellHow glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?Where are the Muses fled that could produceA drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce?How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword'Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord;And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of Ruin!O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene,To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms:She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,To glut that direst foe—a vengeful woman;A woman, (tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,)As able and as wicked as the Devil!One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,But Douglasses were heroes every age:And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,A Douglas followed to the martial strife,Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!As ye hae generous done, if a' the landWould take the Muses' servants by the hand;Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,And where he justly can commend, commend them;And aiblins when they winna stand the test,Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best!Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caition,Ye'll soon hae Poets o' the Scottish nationWill gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,And warsle Time, an' lay him on his back!For us and for our Stage, should ony spier,\"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?\"My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow—We have the honour to belong to you!We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,But like good mithers shore before ye strike;And gratefu' still, I trust ye'll ever find us,For gen'rous patronage, and meikle kindnessWe've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks:God help us! we're but poor—ye'se get but thanks."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18835"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18835,
        ""poem.id"": 18835,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Rigs O' Barley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18836"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18836,
        ""poem.id"": 18836,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18837"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18837,
        ""poem.id"": 18837,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here's To Thy Health, My Bonie Lass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/11/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18838"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18838,
        ""poem.id"": 18838,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph For Mr. W. Cruickshank"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18839"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18839,
        ""poem.id"": 18839,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Five Carlins: An Election Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THERE was five Carlins in the South,They fell upon a scheme,To send a lad to London town,To bring them tidings hame.Nor only bring them tidings hame,But do their errands there,And aiblins gowd and honor baithMight be that laddie's share.There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith,A dame wi' pride eneugh;And Marjory o' the mony Lochs,A Carlin auld and teugh.And blinkin Bess of Annandale,That dwelt near Solway-side;And whisky Jean, that took her gill,In Galloway sae wide.And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 1O' gipsy kith an' kin;Five wighter Carlins were na foundThe South countrie within.To send a lad to London town,They met upon a day;And mony a knight, and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae.O mony a knight, and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae;But nae ane could their fancy please,O ne'er a ane but twae.The first ane was a belted Knight,Bred of a Border band; 2And he wad gae to London town,Might nae man him withstand.And he wad do their errands weel,And meikle he wad say;And ilka ane about the courtWad bid to him gude-day.The neist cam in a Soger youth, 3Who spak wi' modest grace,And he wad gae to London town,If sae their pleasure was.He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,Nor meikle speech pretend;But he wad hecht an honest heart,Wad ne'er desert his friend.Now, wham to chuse, and wham refuse,At strife thir Carlins fell;For some had Gentlefolks to please,And some wad please themsel'.Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith,And she spak up wi' pride,And she wad send the Soger youth,Whatever might betide.For the auld Gudeman o' London court 4She didna care a pin;But she wad send the Soger youth,To greet his eldest son. 5Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale,And a deadly aith she's ta'en,That she wad vote the Border Knight,Though she should vote her lane.\"For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,And fools o' change are fain;But I hae tried the Border Knight,And I'll try him yet again.\"Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel,A Carlin stoor and grim.\"The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman,For me may sink or swim;For fools will prate o' right or wrang,While knaves laugh them to scorn;But the Soger's friends hae blawn the best,So he shall bear the horn.\"Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink,\"Ye weel ken, kimmers a',The auld gudeman o' London court,His back's been at the wa';\"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caupIs now a fremit wight;But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean—We'll send the Border Knight.\"Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs,And wrinkled was her brow,Her ancient weed was russet gray,Her auld Scots bluid was true;\"There's some great folk set light by me,I set as light by them;But I will send to London townWham I like best at hame.\"Sae how this mighty plea may end,Nae mortal wight can tell;God grant the King and ilka manMay look weel to himsel."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18840"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18840,
        ""poem.id"": 18840,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Leave Novels!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18841"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18841,
        ""poem.id"": 18841,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To Mrs. Scott Of Wauchope House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""GUDEWIFE,I MIND it weel in early date,When I was bardless, young, and blate,An' first could thresh the barn,Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;An, tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,Yet unco proud to learn:When first amang the yellow cornA man I reckon'd was,An' wi' the lave ilk merry mornCould rank my rig and lass,Still shearing, and clearingThe tither stooked raw,Wi' claivers, an' haivers,Wearing the day awa.E'en then, a wish, (I mind its pow'r),A wish that to my latest hourShall strongly heave my breast,That I for poor auld Scotland's sakeSome usefu' plan or book could make,Or sing a sang at least.The rough burr-thistle, spreading wideAmang the bearded bear,I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,An' spar'd the symbol dear:No nation, no station,My envy e'er could raise;A Scot still, but blot still,I knew nae higher praise.But still the elements o' sang,In formless jumble, right an' wrang,Wild floated in my brain;'Till on that har'st I said before,May partner in the merry core,She rous'd the forming strain;I see her yet, the sonsie quean,That lighted up my jingle,Her witching smile, her pawky eenThat gart my heart-strings tingle;I firèd, inspired,At every kindling keek,But bashing, and dashing,I fearèd aye to speak.Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says:Wi' merry dance in winter days,An' we to share in common;The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,The saul o' life, the heaven below,Is rapture-giving woman.Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,Be mindfu' o' your mither;She, honest woman, may think shameThat ye're connected with her:Ye're wae men, ye're nae menThat slight the lovely dears;To shame ye, disclaim ye,Ilk honest birkie swears.For you, no bred to barn and byre,Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,Thanks to you for your line:The marled plaid ye kindly spare,By me should gratefully be ware;'Twad please me to the nine.I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,Douce hingin owre my curple,Than ony ermine ever lap,Or proud imperial purple.Farewell then, lang hale then,An' plenty be your fa;May losses and crossesNe'er at your hallan ca'!R. BURNS.March, 1787"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18842"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18842,
        ""poem.id"": 18842,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Saw You My Dear, My Philly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18843"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18843,
        ""poem.id"": 18843,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where Are The Joys I Have Met"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18844"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18844,
        ""poem.id"": 18844,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Aye My Wife She Dang Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18845"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18845,
        ""poem.id"": 18845,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription For An Alter Of Independence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18846"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18846,
        ""poem.id"": 18846,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fickle Fortune: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18847"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18847,
        ""poem.id"": 18847,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:55:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Calf"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18848"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18848,
        ""poem.id"": 18848,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On Dr. Babington's Looks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18849"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18849,
        ""poem.id"": 18849,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sylvander To Clarinda"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18850"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18850,
        ""poem.id"": 18850,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On A Henpecked Squire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18851"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18851,
        ""poem.id"": 18851,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bonie Lass Of Albany"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18852"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18852,
        ""poem.id"": 18852,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dean Of Faculty: A New Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18853"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18853,
        ""poem.id"": 18853,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18854"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18854,
        ""poem.id"": 18854,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thou Gloomy December"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18855"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18855,
        ""poem.id"": 18855,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Kirk Of Scotland's Alarm: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""ORTHODOX! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:A heretic blast has been blown in the West,That what is no sense must be nonsense,Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,To strike evil-doers wi' terror:To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,Was heretic, damnable error,Doctor Mac! 1 'Twas heretic, damnable error.Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing, 2Provost John 3 is still deaf to the Church's relief,And Orator Bob 4 is its ruin,Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.D'rymple mild! D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,And your life like the new-driven snaw,Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you,For preaching that three's ane an' twa,D'rymple mild! 5 For preaching that three's ane an' twa.Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd;Then out wi' your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,And roar ev'ry note of the D—'d.Rumble John! 6 And roar ev'ry note of the D—'d.Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames,There's a holier chase in your view:I'll lay on your head, that the pack you'll soon lead,For puppies like you there's but few,Simper James! 7 For puppies like you there's but few.Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,Unconscious what evils await?With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev'ry soul,For the foul thief is just at your gate.Singet Sawnie! 8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,Wi' your \"Liberty's Chain\" and your wit;O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.Poet Willie! 9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t.Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?If ye meddle nae mair wi' the matter,Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,Wi' people that ken ye nae better,Barr Steenie! 10 Wi'people that ken ye nae better.Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's holy ark,He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't,Jamie Goose! 11 He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't.Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,The core is no nice o' recruits;Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,If the Ass were the king o' the brutes,Davie Bluster! 12 If the Ass were the king o' the brutes.Cessnock-side! Cessnock-side, wi' your turkey-cock prideOf manhood but sma' is your share:Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev'n your foes will allow,And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,Cessnock-side! 13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the L—d makes a rock,To crush common-sense for her sins;If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fitTo confound the poor Doctor at ance,Muirland Jock! 14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,An' the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;Tho' ye're rich, an' look big, yet, lay by hat an' wig,An' ye'll hae a calf's-had o' sma' value,Andro Gowk! 15 Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma value.Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there'a a tod in the fauld,A tod meikle waur than the clerk;Tho' ye do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,Daddy Auld! 16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;The timmer is scant when ye're taen for a saunt,Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,Holy Will! 17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual guns,Ammunition you never can need;Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,And your skulls are a storehouse o' lead,Calvin's sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o' lead.Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi\" your priest-skelpin turns,Why desert ye your auld native shire?Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e'en tipsy,She could ca'us nae waur than we are,Poet Burns! She could ca'us nae waur than we are.PRESENTATION STANZAS TO CORRESPONDENTSFactor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,And ne'er made anither, thy peer,Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,He presents thee this token sincere,Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.Afton's Laird! Afton's Laird, when your pen can be spared,A copy of this I bequeath,On the same sicker score as I mention'd before,To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,Afton's Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18856"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18856,
        ""poem.id"": 18856,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On Miss Davies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18857"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18857,
        ""poem.id"": 18857,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""RecitativoWHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird,Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,And infant frosts begin to bite,In hoary cranreuch drest;Ae night at e'en a merry coreO' randie, gangrel bodies,In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,To drink their orra duddies;Wi' quaffing an' laughing,They ranted an' they sang,Wi' jumping an' thumping,The vera girdle rang,First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,And knapsack a' in order;His doxy lay within his arm;Wi' usquebae an' blankets warmShe blinkit on her sodger;An' aye he gies the tozie drabThe tither skelpin' kiss,While she held up her greedy gab,Just like an aumous dish;Ilk smack still, did crack still,Just like a cadger's whip;Then staggering an' swaggeringHe roar'd this ditty up—AirTune—\"Soldier's Joy.\"I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars,And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.Lal de daudle, &c.My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last,When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram:And I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd,And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt'ries,And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.And now tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,When the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell,I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.RecitativoHe ended; and the kebars sheuk,Aboon the chorus roar;While frighted rattons backward leuk,An' seek the benmost bore:A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,He skirl'd out, encore!But up arose the martial chuck,An' laid the loud uproar.AirTune—\"Sodger Laddie.\"I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when,And still my delight is in proper young men;Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie,Sing, lal de lal, &c.The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,Transported I was with my sodger laddie.But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;The sword I forsook for the sake of the church:He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body,'Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,The regiment at large for a husband I got;From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,I askèd no more but a sodger laddie.But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair,Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair,His rags regimental, they flutter'd so gaudy,My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie.And now I have liv'd—I know not how long,And still I can join in a cup and a song;But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.RecitativoPoor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk,Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler-hizzie;They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,Between themselves they were sae busy:At length, wi' drink an' courting dizzy,He stoiter'd up an' made a face;Then turn'd an' laid a smack on Grizzie,Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace.AirTune—\"Auld Sir Symon.\"Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou;Sir Knave is a fool in a session;He's there but a 'prentice I trow,But I am a fool by profession.My grannie she bought me a beuk,An' I held awa to the school;I fear I my talent misteuk,But what will ye hae of a fool?For drink I would venture my neck;A hizzie's the half of my craft;But what could ye other expectOf ane that's avowedly daft?I ance was tied up like a stirk,For civilly swearing and quaffin;I ance was abus'd i' the kirk,For towsing a lass i' my daffin.Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,Let naebody name wi' a jeer;There's even, I'm tauld, i' the CourtA tumbler ca'd the Premier.Observ'd ye yon reverend ladMak faces to tickle the mob;He rails at our mountebank squad,—It's rivalship just i' the job.And now my conclusion I'll tell,For faith I'm confoundedly dry;The chiel that's a fool for himsel',Guid L—d! he's far dafter than I.RecitativoThen niest outspak a raucle carlin,Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin;For mony a pursie she had hooked,An' had in mony a well been douked;Her love had been a Highland laddie,But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus beganTo wail her braw John Highlandman.AirTune—\"O, an ye were dead, Guidman.\"A Highland lad my love was born,The Lalland laws he held in scorn;But he still was faithfu' to his clan,My gallant, braw John Highlandman.Chorus Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!There's not a lad in a' the lan'Was match for my John Highlandman.With his philibeg an' tartan plaid,An' guid claymore down by his side,The ladies' hearts he did trepan,My gallant, braw John Highlandman.Sing hey, &c.We rangèd a' from Tweed to Spey,An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay;For a Lalland face he fearèd none,—My gallant, braw John Highlandman.Sing hey, &c.They banish'd him beyond the sea.But ere the bud was on the tree,Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,Embracing my John Highlandman.Sing hey, &c.But, och! they catch'd him at the last,And bound him in a dungeon fast:My curse upon them every one,They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman!Sing hey, &c.And now a widow, I must mournThe pleasures that will ne'er return:The comfort but a hearty can,When I think on John Highlandman.Sing hey, &c.RecitativoA pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle,Wha us'd at trystes an' fairs to driddle.Her strappin limb and gausy middle(He reach'd nae higher)Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle,An' blawn't on fire.Wi' hand on hainch, and upward e'e,He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three,Then in an arioso key,The wee ApollSet off wi' allegretto gleeHis giga solo.AirTune—\"Whistle owre the lave o't.\"Let me ryke up to dight that tear,An' go wi' me an' be my dear;An' then your every care an' fearMay whistle owre the lave o't.Chorus I am a fiddler to my trade,An' a' the tunes that e'er I played,The sweetest still to wife or maid,Was whistle owre the lave o't.At kirns an' weddins we'se be there,An' O sae nicely's we will fare!We'll bowse about till Daddie CareSing whistle owre the lave o't.I am, &c.Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,An' sun oursel's about the dyke;An' at our leisure, when ye like,We'll whistle owre the lave o't.I am, &c.But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,An' while I kittle hair on thairms,Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms,May whistle owre the lave o't.I am, &c.RecitativoHer charms had struck a sturdy caird,As weel as poor gut-scraper;He taks the fiddler by the beard,An' draws a roosty rapier—He swoor, by a' was swearing worth,To speet him like a pliver,Unless he would from that time forthRelinquish her for ever.Wi' ghastly e'e poor tweedle-deeUpon his hunkers bended,An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,An' so the quarrel ended.But tho' his little heart did grieveWhen round the tinkler prest her,He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve,When thus the caird address'd her:AirTune—\"Clout the Cauldron.\"My bonie lass, I work in brass,A tinkler is my station:I've travell'd round all Christian groundIn this my occupation;I've taen the gold, an' been enrolledIn many a noble squadron;But vain they search'd when off I march'dTo go an' clout the cauldron.I've taen the gold, &c.Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,With a' his noise an' cap'rin;An' take a share with those that bearThe budget and the apron!And by that stowp! my faith an' houp,And by that dear Kilbaigie, 2If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,May I ne'er weet my craigie.And by that stowp, &c.RecitativoThe caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fairIn his embraces sunk;Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,An' partly she was drunk:Sir Violino, with an airThat show'd a man o' spunk,Wish'd unison between the pair,An' made the bottle clunkTo their health that night.But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,That play'd a dame a shavie—The fiddler rak'd her, fore and aft,Behint the chicken cavie.Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft, 3Tho' limpin wi' the spavie,He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft,An' shor'd them Dainty DavieO' boot that night.He was a care-defying bladeAs ever Bacchus listed!Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,His heart, she ever miss'd it.He had no wish but—to be glad,Nor want but—when he thirsted;He hated nought but—to be sad,An' thus the muse suggestedHis sang that night.AirTune—\"For a' that, an' a' that.\"I am a Bard of no regard,Wi' gentle folks an' a' that;But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,Frae town to town I draw that.Chorus For a' that, an' a' that,An' twice as muckle's a' that;I've lost but ane, I've twa behin',I've wife eneugh for a' that.I never drank the Muses' stank,Castalia's burn, an' a' that;But there it streams an' richly reams,My Helicon I ca' that.For a' that, &c.Great love Idbear to a' the fair,Their humble slave an' a' that;But lordly will, I hold it stillA mortal sin to thraw that.For a' that, &c.In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,Wi' mutual love an' a' that;But for how lang the flie may stang,Let inclination law that.For a' that, &c.Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft,They've taen me in, an' a' that;But clear your decks, and here's—\"The Sex!\"I like the jads for a' that.Chorus For a' that, an' a' that,An' twice as muckle's a' that;My dearest bluid, to do them guid,They're welcome till't for a' that.RecitativoSo sang the bard—and Nansie's wa'sShook with a thunder of applause,Re-echo'd from each mouth!They toom'd their pocks, they pawn'd their duds,They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,To quench their lowin drouth:Then owre again, the jovial thrangThe poet did requestTo lowse his pack an' wale a sang,A ballad o' the best;He rising, rejoicing,Between his twa Deborahs,Looks round him, an' found themImpatient for the chorus.AirTune—\"Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.\"See the smoking bowl before us,Mark our jovial ragged ring!Round and round take up the chorus,And in raptures let us sing—Chorus A fig for those by law protected!Liberty's a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.What is title, what is treasure,What is reputation's care?If we lead a life of pleasure,'Tis no matter how or where!A fig for, &c.With the ready trick and fable,Round we wander all the day;And at night in barn or stable,Hug our doxies on the hay.A fig for, &c.Does the train-attended carriageThro' the country lighter rove?Does the sober bed of marriageWitness brighter scenes of love?A fig for, &c.Life is al a variorum,We regard not how it goes;Let them cant about decorum,Who have character to lose.A fig for, &c.Here's to budgets, bags and wallets!Here's to all the wandering train.Here's our ragged brats and callets,One and all cry out, Amen!Chorus A fig for those by law protected!Liberty's a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18858"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18858,
        ""poem.id"": 18858,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pegasus At Wanlockhead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18859"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18859,
        ""poem.id"": 18859,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines To Mr. John Kennedy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18860"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18860,
        ""poem.id"": 18860,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:56:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—i Hae Been At Crookieden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""9/9/2013"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18862"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18862,
        ""poem.id"": 18862,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18863"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18863,
        ""poem.id"": 18863,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""You'Re Welcome, Willie Stewart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18864"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18864,
        ""poem.id"": 18864,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""News, Lassies, News"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18865"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18865,
        ""poem.id"": 18865,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18866"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18866,
        ""poem.id"": 18866,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment—her Flwoing Locks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18867"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18867,
        ""poem.id"": 18867,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wounded Hare"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18868"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18868,
        ""poem.id"": 18868,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—fragment—johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18869"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18869,
        ""poem.id"": 18869,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On Rough Roads"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/11/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18870"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18870,
        ""poem.id"": 18870,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—lady Mary Ann"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18871"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18871,
        ""poem.id"": 18871,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—charlie, He's My Darling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18872"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18872,
        ""poem.id"": 18872,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription To Jessie Lewars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18873"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18873,
        ""poem.id"": 18873,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Poet's Progress"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;Of thy caprice maternal I complain.The peopled fold thy kindly care have found,The hornèd bull, tremendous, spurns the ground;The lordly lion has enough and more,The forest trembles at his very roar;Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell.Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour,In all th' omnipotence of rule and power:Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure;The cit and polecat stink, and are secure:Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug:E'en silly women have defensive arts,Their eyes, their tongues—and nameless other parts.But O thou cruel stepmother and hard,To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard!A thing unteachable in worldly skill,And half an idiot too, more helpless still:No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun,No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun:No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:No nerves olfact'ry, true to Mammon's foot,Or grunting, grub sagacious, evil's root:The silly sheep that wanders wild astray,Is not more friendless, is not more a prey;Vampyre-booksellers drain him to the heart,And viper-critics cureless venom dart.Critics! appll'd I venture on the name,Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame,Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes,He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:By blockhead's daring into madness stung,His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung,His well-won ways-than life itself more dear—By miscreants torn who ne'er one sprig must wear;Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,The hapless Poet flounces on through life,Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired,And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd,Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age,Dead even resentment for his injur'd page,He heeds no more the ruthless critics' rage.So by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd,For half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast;By toil and famine worn to skin and bone,Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.· · · · · · A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,And still his precious self his dear delight;Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,Better than e'er the fairest she he meets;Much specious lore, but little understood,(Veneering oft outshines the solid wood),His solid sense, by inches you must tell,But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell!A man of fashion too, he made his tour,Learn'd \"vive la bagatelle et vive l'amour;\"So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies' love!His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,Still making work his selfish craft must mend.· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · Crochallan came,The old cock'd hat, the brown surtout—the same;His grisly beard just bristling in its might—'Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night;His uncomb'd, hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch'dA head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting-rude,His heart was warm, benevolent and good.· · · · · · O Dulness, portion of the truly blest!Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest!Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremesOf Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams;If mantling high she fills the golden cup,With sober, selfish ease they sip it up;Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,They only wonder \"some folks\" do not starve!The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog,And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.When disappointment snaps the thread of Hope,When, thro' disastrous night, they darkling grope,With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,And just conclude that \"fools are Fortune's care:\"So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train,Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;In equanimity they never dwell,By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18874"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18874,
        ""poem.id"": 18874,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:57:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—bonie Peggy Alison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18875"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18875,
        ""poem.id"": 18875,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—talk Of Him That's Far Awa"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18876"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18876,
        ""poem.id"": 18876,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—braw Lads O' Gala Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18877"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18877,
        ""poem.id"": 18877,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Captive Ribband"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18878"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18878,
        ""poem.id"": 18878,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18879"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18879,
        ""poem.id"": 18879,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—wandering Willie (Revised Version)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18880"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18880,
        ""poem.id"": 18880,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Remorse: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18881"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18881,
        ""poem.id"": 18881,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Brigs Of Ayr"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THE SIMPLE Bard, rough at the rustic plough,Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;Shall he—nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,To hardy independence bravely bred,By early poverty to hardship steel'd.And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field—Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?Or labour hard the panegyric close,With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace,Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;When Ballantine befriends his humble name,And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.—————— 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaithO' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak,The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs,Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:The hoary morns precede the sunny days,Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,While thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays.'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,Unknown and poor-simplicity's reward!—Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,He left his bed, and took his wayward route,And down by Simpson's 1 wheel'd the left about:(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate,To witness what I after shall narrate;Or whether, rapt in meditation high,He wander'd out, he knew not where or why:)The drowsy Dungeon-clock 2 had number'd two, and Wallace Tower 3 had sworn the fact was true:The tide-swoln firth, with sullen-sounding roar,Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore.All else was hush'd as Nature's closèd e'e;The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree;The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream—When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air;Swift as the gos 4 drives on the wheeling hare;Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,The other flutters o'er the rising piers:Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcriedThe Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them,And even the very deils they brawly ken them).\"Auld Brig\" appear'd of ancient Pictish race,The very wrinkles Gothic in his face;He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.\"New Brig\" was buskit in a braw new coat,That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got;In 's hand five taper staves as smooth 's a bead,Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch;It chanc'd his new-come neibor took his e'e,And e'en a vexed and angry heart had he!Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en:—AULD BRIG\"I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheepshank,Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank!But gin ye be a brig as auld as me—Tho' faith, that date, I doubt, ye'll never see—There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle,Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle.\"NEW BRIG \"Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense,Just much about it wi' your scanty sense:Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime,Compare wi' bonie brigs o' modern time?There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat stream, 5Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,E'er they would grate their feelings wi' the viewO' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.\"AULD BRIG \"Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide;And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn!As yet ye little ken about the matter,But twa-three winters will inform ye better.When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains,Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil;Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course.Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source,Aroused by blustering winds an' spotting thowes,In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;While crashing ice, borne on the rolling spate,Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;And from Glenbuck, 6 down to the Ratton-key, 7Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea—Then down ye'll hurl, (deil nor ye never rise!)And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies!A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,That Architecture's noble art is lost!\"NEW BRIG \"Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't,The L—d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices;O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves;Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drestWith order, symmetry, or taste unblest;Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream,The craz'd creations of misguided whim;Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee,And still the second dread command be free;Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea!Mansions that would disgrace the building tasteOf any mason reptile, bird or beast:Fit only for a doited monkish race,Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion,That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion:Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,And soon may they expire, unblest wi' resurrection!\"AULD BRIG \"O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie,Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye;Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners,To whom our moderns are but causey-cleanersYe godly Councils, wha hae blest this town;ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown,Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters;And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers;A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,Were ye but here, what would ye say or do?How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,To see each melancholy alteration;And, agonising, curse the time and placeWhen ye begat the base degen'rate race!Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory,In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story;Nae langer thrifty citizens, an' douce,Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house;But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,The herryment and ruin of the country;Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers,Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d—'d new brigs and harbours!\"NEW BRIG \"Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough,And muckle mair than ye can mak to through.As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:But, under favour o' your langer beard,Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd;To liken them to your auld-warld squad,I must needs say, comparisons are odd.In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handleTo mouth 'a Citizen,' a term o' scandal;Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins,Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins:If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp,And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them,Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.\"What farther clish-ma-claver aight been said,What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,No man can tell; but, all before their sight,A fairy train appear'd in order bright;Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd;Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd:They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.O had M'Lauchlan, 8 thairm-inspiring sage,Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage;Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares;How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd,And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd!No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,But all the soul of Music's self was heard;Harmonious concert rung in every part,While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.The Genius of the Stream in front appears,A venerable Chief advanc'd in years;His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,His manly leg with garter-tangle bound.Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,Sweet female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy,And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye;All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn;Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,By Hospitality with cloudless brow:Next followed Courage with his martial stride,From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide; 9Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair; 10Learning and Worth in equal measures trode,From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: 11Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath,To rustic Agriculture did bequeathThe broken, iron instruments of death:At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18882"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18882,
        ""poem.id"": 18882,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Tam The Chapman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18883"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18883,
        ""poem.id"": 18883,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J——n, On Her Principles Of Liberty And Eqality"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18884"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18884,
        ""poem.id"": 18884,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Masonic Song—ye Sons Of Old Killie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18885"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18885,
        ""poem.id"": 18885,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poem On Sensibility"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18886"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18886,
        ""poem.id"": 18886,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ballad On Mr. Heron's Election—no. 4"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHA will buy my troggin, fine election ware,Broken trade o' Broughton, a' in high repair?Chorus.—Buy braw troggin frae the banks o' Dee;Wha wants troggin let him come to me.There's a noble Earl's fame and high renown,For an auld sang—it's thought the gudes were stown—Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's the worth o' Broughton in a needle's e'e;Here's a reputation tint by Balmaghie.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's its stuff and lining, Cardoness' head,Fine for a soger, a' the wale o' lead.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's a little wadset, Buittle's scrap o' truth,Pawn'd in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's an honest conscience might a prince adorn;Frae the downs o' Tinwald, so was never worn.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's armorial bearings frae the manse o' Urr;The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast;By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here is Satan's picture, like a bizzard gled,Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin' like a taed.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here's the font where Douglas stane and mortar names;Lately used at Caily christening Murray's crimes.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here is Murray's fragments o' the ten commands;Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands.Buy braw troggin, &c.Saw ye e'er sic troggin? if to buy ye're slack,Hornie's turnin chapman—he'll buy a' the pack.Buy braw troggin, &c."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18887"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18887,
        ""poem.id"": 18887,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:58:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18888"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18888,
        ""poem.id"": 18888,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On The Same"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18889"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18889,
        ""poem.id"": 18889,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tam Samson's Elegy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his heel?Or Robertson 2 again grown weel,To preach an' read?\"Na' waur than a'! cries ilka chiel,\"Tam Samson's dead!\"Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,In mourning weed;To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane—Tam Samson's dead!The Brethren, o' the mystic levelMay hing their head in woefu' bevel,While by their nose the tears will revel,Like ony bead;Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel;Tam Samson's dead!When Winter muffles up his cloak,And binds the mire like a rock;When to the loughs the curlers flock,Wi' gleesome speed,Wha will they station at the \"cock?\"Tam Samson's dead!When Winter muffles up his cloak,He was the king o' a' the core,To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,Or up the rink like Jehu roar,In time o' need;But now he lags on Death's \"hog-score\"—Tam Samson's dead!Now safe the stately sawmont sail,And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,And eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail,And geds for greed,Since, dark in Death's fish-creel, we wailTam Samson's dead!Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' brawWithouten dread;Your mortal fae is now awa;Tam Samson's dead!That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,Saw him in shooting graith adorn'd,While pointers round impatient burn'd,Frae couples free'd;But och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!Tam Samson's dead!In vain auld age his body batters,In vain the gout his ancles fetters,In vain the burns cam down like waters,An acre braid!Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters\"Tam Samson's dead!\"Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,Till coward Death behind him jumpit,Wi' deadly feid;Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet,\"Tam Samson's dead!\"When at his heart he felt the dagger,He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,But yet he drew the mortal trigger,Wi' weel-aimed heed;\"L—d, five!\" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger—Tam Samson's dead!Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,Marks out his head;Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,\"Tam Samson's dead!\"There, low he lies, in lasting rest;Perhaps upon his mould'ring breastSome spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nestTo hatch an' breed:Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!Tam Samson's dead!When August winds the heather wave,And sportsmen wander by yon grave,Three volleys let his memory crave,O' pouther an' lead,Till Echo answer frae her cave,\"Tam Samson's dead!\"Heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!Is th' wish o' mony mae than me:He had twa fauts, or maybe three,Yet what remead?Ae social, honest man want we:Tam Samson's dead!THE EPITAPHTam Samson's weel-worn clay here liesYe canting zealots, spare him!If honest worth in Heaven rise,Ye'll mend or ye win near him.PER CONTRAGo, Fame, an' canter like a fillyThro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie; 3Tell ev'ry social honest billieTo cease his grievin';For, yet unskaithed by Death's gleg gullie.Tam Samson's leevin'!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18890"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18890,
        ""poem.id"": 18890,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses On Captain Grose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18891"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18891,
        ""poem.id"": 18891,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To Hugh Parker"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18892"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18892,
        ""poem.id"": 18892,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Suppressed Stanzas Of &Quot;The Vision&Quot;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WITH secret throes I marked that earth,That cottage, witness of my birth;And near I saw, bold issuing forthIn youthful pride,A Lindsay race of noble worth,Famed far and wide.Where, hid behind a spreading wood,An ancient Pict-built mansion stood,I spied, among an angel brood,A female pair;Sweet shone their high maternal blood,And father's air. 1An ancient tower 2 to memory broughtHow Dettingen's bold hero fought;Still, far from sinking into nought,It owns a lordWho far in western climates fought,With trusty sword.Among the rest I well could spyOne gallant, graceful, martial boy,The soldier sparkled in his eye,A diamond water.I blest that noble badge with joy,That owned me frater. 3After 20th stanza of the text (at \"Dispensing good\"):—Near by arose a mansion fine 4The seat of many a muse divine;Not rustic muses such as mine,With holly crown'd,But th' ancient, tuneful, laurell'd Nine,From classic ground.I mourn'd the card that Fortune dealt,To see where bonie Whitefoords dwelt; 5But other prospects made me melt,That village near; 6There Nature, Friendship, Love, I felt,Fond-mingling, dear!Hail! Nature's pang, more strong than death!Warm Friendship's glow, like kindling wrath!Love, dearer than the parting breathOf dying friend!Not ev'n with life's wild devious path,Your force shall end!The Power that gave the soft alarmsIn blooming Whitefoord's rosy charms,Still threats the tiny, feather'd arms,The barbed dart,While lovely Wilhelmina warmsThe coldest heart. 7After 21st stanza of the text (at \"That, to adore\"):—Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid, 8Where lately Want was idly laid,I markèd busy, bustling Trade,In fervid flame,Beneath a Patroness' aid,Of noble name.Wild, countless hills I could survey,And countless flocks as wild as they;But other scenes did charms display,That better please,Where polish'd manners dwell with Gray,In rural ease. 9Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound; 10And Irwine, marking out the bound,Enamour'd of the scenes around,Slow runs his race,A name I doubly honour'd found, 11With knightly grace.Brydon's brave ward, 12 I saw him stand,Fame humbly offering her hand,And near, his kinsman's rustic band, 13With one accord,Lamenting their late blessed landMust change its lord.The owner of a pleasant spot,Near and sandy wilds, I last did note; 14A heart too warm, a pulse too hotAt times, o'erran:But large in ev'ry feature wrote,Appear'd the Man."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18893"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18893,
        ""poem.id"": 18893,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram—the Toad-Eater"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18894"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18894,
        ""poem.id"": 18894,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Frae The Friends And Land I Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18895"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18895,
        ""poem.id"": 18895,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scroggam, My Dearie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18896"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18896,
        ""poem.id"": 18896,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Versified Reply To An Invitation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18897"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18897,
        ""poem.id"": 18897,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Elphinstone's Translation Of Martial's Epigrams"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18898"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18898,
        ""poem.id"": 18898,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Lord A-Hunting He Is Gane"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18899"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18899,
        ""poem.id"": 18899,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On Andrew Turner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18900"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18900,
        ""poem.id"": 18900,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 05:59:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Here"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18901"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18901,
        ""poem.id"": 18901,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On James Grieve"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18902"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18902,
        ""poem.id"": 18902,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sweet Afton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18903"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18903,
        ""poem.id"": 18903,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Election Ballad At Close Of Contest For Representing The Dumfries Burghs, 1790"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""FINTRY, my stay in wordly strife,Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,Are ye as idle's I am?Come then, wi' uncouth kintra fleg,O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,And ye shall see me try him.But where shall I go rin a ride,That I may splatter nane beside?I wad na be uncivil:In manhood's various paths and waysThere's aye some doytin' body strays,And I ride like the devil.Thus I break aff wi' a' my birr,And down yon dark, deep alley spur,Where Theologics daunder:Alas! curst wi' eternal fogs,And damn'd in everlasting bogs,As sure's the creed I'll blunder!I'll stain a band, or jaup a gown,Or rin my reckless, guilty crownAgainst the haly door:Sair do I rue my luckless fate,When, as the Muse an' Deil wad hae't,I rade that road before.Suppose I take a spurt, and mixAmang the wilds o' Politics—Electors and elected,Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)Septennially a madness touches,Till all the land's infected.All hail! Drumlanrig's haughty Grace,Discarded remnant of a raceOnce godlike-great in story;Thy forbears' virtues all contrasted,The very name of Douglas blasted,Thine that inverted glory!Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore,But thou hast superadded more,And sunk them in contempt;Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,From aught that's good exempt!I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,Who left the all-important caresOf princes, and their darlings:And, bent on winning borough touns,Came shaking hands wi' wabster-loons,And kissing barefit carlins.Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,Whistling his roaring pack abroadOf mad unmuzzled lions;As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl'd,And Westerha' and Hopetoun hurledTo every Whig defiance.But cautious Queensberry left the war,Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star,Besides, he hated bleeding:But left behind him heroes bright,Heroes in C&æsarean fight,Or Ciceronian pleading.O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,To muster o'er each ardent WhigBeneath Drumlanrig's banners;Heroes and heroines commix,All in the field of politics,To win immortal honours.M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!)Led on the Loves and Graces:She won each gaping burgess' heart,While he, sub rosa, played his partAmang their wives and lasses.Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd core,Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,Like Hecla streaming thunder:Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,Blew up each Tory's dark designs,And bared the treason under.In either wing two champions fought;Redoubted Staig, who set at noughtThe wildest savage Tory;And Welsh who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,High-wav'd his magnum-bonum roundWith Cyclopeian fury.Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,The many-pounders of the Banks,Resistless desolation!While Maxwelton, that baron bold,'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,And threaten'd worse damnation.To these what Tory hosts oppos'dWith these what Tory warriors clos'dSurpasses my descriving;Squadrons, extended long and large,With furious speed rush to the charge,Like furious devils driving.What verse can sing, what prose narrate,The butcher deeds of bloody Fate,Amid this mighty tulyie!Grim Horror girn'd, pale Terror roar'd,As Murder at his thrapple shor'd,And Hell mix'd in the brulyie.As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,When lightnings fire the stormy lift,Hurl down with crashing rattle;As flames among a hundred woods,As headlong foam from a hundred floods,Such is the rage of Battle.The stubborn Tories dare to die;As soon the rooted oaks would flyBefore th' approaching fellers:The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,When all his wintry billows pourAgainst the Buchan Bullers.Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,And think on former daring:The muffled murtherer of CharlesThe Magna Charter flag unfurls,All deadly gules its bearing.Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham;Auld Covenanters shiver—Forgive! forgive! much-wrong'd Montrose!Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,Thou liv'st on high for ever.Still o'er the field the combat burns,The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;But Fate the word has spoken:For woman's wit and strength o'man,Alas! can do but what they can;The Tory ranks are broken.O that my een were flowing burns!My voice, a lioness that mournsHer darling cubs' undoing!That I might greet, that I might cry,While Tories fall, while Tories fly,And furious Whigs pursuing!What Whig but melts for good Sir James,Dear to his country, by the names,Friend, Patron, Benefactor!Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save;And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave;And Stewart, bold as Hector.Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,And Melville melt in wailing:Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,And Burke shall sing, \"O Prince, arise!Thy power is all-prevailing!\"For your poor friend, the Bard, afarHe only hears and sees the war,A cool spectator purely!So, when the storm the forest rends,The robin in the hedge descends,And sober chirps securely.Now, for my friends' and brethren's sakes,And for my dear-lov'd Land o' Cakes,I pray with holy fire:Lord, send a rough-shod troop o' HellO'er a' wad Scotland buy or sell,To grind them in the mire!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18904"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18904,
        ""poem.id"": 18904,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""152. Extempore In The Court Of Session"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18905"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18905,
        ""poem.id"": 18905,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death And Dr. Hornbook"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""SOME books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn'd:Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd,In holy rapture,A rousing whid at times to vend,And nail't wi' Scripture.But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befell,Is just as true's the Deil's in hellOr Dublin city:That e'er he nearer comes oursel''S a muckle pity.The clachan yill had made me canty,I was na fou, but just had plenty;I stacher'd whiles, but yet too tent ayeTo free the ditches;An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd eyeFrae ghaists an' witches.The rising moon began to glowreThe distant Cumnock hills out-owre:To count her horns, wi' a my pow'r,I set mysel';But whether she had three or four,I cou'd na tell.I was come round about the hill,An' todlin down on Willie's mill,Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,To keep me sicker;Tho' leeward whiles, against my will,I took a bicker.I there wi' Something did forgather,That pat me in an eerie swither;An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,Clear-dangling, hang;A three-tae'd leister on the itherLay, large an' lang.Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,The queerest shape that e'er I saw,For fient a wame it had ava;And then its shanks,They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'As cheeks o' branks.\"Guid-een,\" quo' I; \"Friend! hae ye been mawin,When ither folk are busy sawin!\" 1I seem'd to make a kind o' stan'But naething spak;At length, says I, \"Friend! whare ye gaun?Will ye go back?\"It spak right howe,—\"My name is Death,But be na fley'd.\"—Quoth I, \"Guid faith,Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;But tent me, billie;I red ye weel, tak care o' skaithSee, there's a gully!\"\"Gudeman,\" quo' he, \"put up your whittle,I'm no designed to try its mettle;But if I did, I wad be kittleTo be mislear'd;I wad na mind it, no that spittleOut-owre my beard.\"\"Weel, weel!\" says I, \"a bargain be't;Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;We'll ease our shanks an tak a seat—Come, gie's your news;This while ye hae been mony a gate,At mony a house.\" 2\"Ay, ay!\" quo' he, an' shook his head,\"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeedSin' I began to nick the thread,An' choke the breath:Folk maun do something for their bread,An' sae maun Death.\"Sax thousand years are near-hand fledSin' I was to the butching bred,An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,To stap or scar me;Till ane Hornbook's 3 ta'en up the trade,And faith! he'll waur me.\"Ye ken Hornbook i' the clachan,Deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan 4And ither chaps,The weans haud out their fingers laughin,An' pouk my hips.\"See, here's a scythe, an' there's dart,They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his artAn' cursed skill,Has made them baith no worth a f—t,D—n'd haet they'll kill!\"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,I threw a noble throw at ane;Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;But deil-ma-care,It just play'd dirl on the bane,But did nae mair.\"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,An' had sae fortify'd the part,That when I looked to my dart,It was sae blunt,Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heartOf a kail-runt.\"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry,But yet the bauld ApothecaryWithstood the shock;I might as weel hae tried a quarryO' hard whin rock.\"Ev'n them he canna get attended,Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it,Just —— in a kail-blade, an' sent it,As soon's he smells 't,Baith their disease, and what will mend it,At once he tells 't.\"And then, a' doctor's saws an' whittles,Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,A' kind o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,He's sure to hae;Their Latin names as fast he rattlesAs A B C.\"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees;True sal-marinum o' the seas;The farina of beans an' pease,He has't in plenty;Aqua-fontis, what you please,He can content ye.\"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,Urinus spiritus of capons;Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,Distill'd per se;Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,And mony mae.\"\"Waes me for Johnie Ged's-Hole 5 now,\"Quoth I, \"if that thae news be true!His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,Sae white and bonie,Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;They'll ruin Johnie!\"The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,And says \"Ye needna yoke the pleugh,Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,Tak ye nae fear:They'll be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh,In twa-three year.\"Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae-death,By loss o' blood or want of breathThis night I'm free to tak my aith,That Hornbook's skillHas clad a score i' their last claith,By drap an' pill.\"An honest wabster to his trade,Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bredGat tippence-worth to mend her head,When it was sair;The wife slade cannie to her bed,But ne'er spak mair.\"A country laird had ta'en the batts,Or some curmurring in his guts,His only son for Hornbook sets,An' pays him well:The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,Was laird himsel'.\"A bonie lass—ye kend her name—Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;She trusts hersel', to hide the shame,In Hornbook's care;Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,To hide it there.\"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;Thus goes he on from day to day,Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,An's weel paid for't;Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,Wi' his d—n'd dirt:\"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't;I'll nail the self-conceited sot,As dead's a herrin;Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat,He gets his fairin!\"But just as he began to tell,The auld kirk-hammer strak the bellSome wee short hour ayont the twal',Which rais'd us baith:I took the way that pleas'd mysel',And sae did Death."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18906"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18906,
        ""poem.id"": 18906,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poem On Pastoral Poetry"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'dFrae common sense, or sunk enerv'd'Mang heaps o' clavers:And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,'Mid a' thy favours!Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang,While loud the trump's heroic clang,And sock or buskin skelp alangTo death or marriage;Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sangBut wi' miscarriage?In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;Wee Pope, the knurlin', till him rivesHoratian fame;In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survivesEven Sappho's flame.But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;Squire Pope but busks his skinklin' patchesO' heathen tatters:I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,That ape their betters.In this braw age o' wit and lear,Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mairBlaw sweetly in its native air,And rural grace;And, wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, shareA rival place?Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan!There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,A chiel sae clever;The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan,But thou's for ever.Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,In thy sweet Caledonian lines;Nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines,Where Philomel,While nightly breezes sweep the vines,Her griefs will tell!In gowany glens thy burnie strays,Where bonie lasses bleach their claes,Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,Wi' hawthorns gray,Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays,At close o' day.Thy rural loves are Nature's sel';Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spellO' witchin love,That charm that can the strongest quell,The sternest move."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18907"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18907,
        ""poem.id"": 18907,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses Written With A Pencil At The Inn At Kenmore"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18908"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18908,
        ""poem.id"": 18908,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—my Collier Laddie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18909"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18909,
        ""poem.id"": 18909,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—m'Pherson's Farewell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18910"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18910,
        ""poem.id"": 18910,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sketch In Verse, Inscribed To The Right Hon. C. J. Fox"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""HOW wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite,How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white,How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction,Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction,I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle,I care not, not I—let the Critics go whistle!But now for a Patron whose name and whose glory,At once may illustrate and honour my story.Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits;With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong;With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right;A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses,For using thy name, offers fifty excuses.Good L—d, what is Man! for as simple he looks,Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks;With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours,That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours:Mankind are his show-box—a friend, would you know him?Pull the string, Ruling Passion the picture will show him,What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him;For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,Mankind is a science defies definitions.Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,And think human nature they truly describe;Have you found this, or t'other? There's more in the wind;As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,In the make of that wonderful creature called Man,No two virtues, whatever relation they claim.Nor even two different shades of the same,Though like as was ever twin brother to brother,Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.But truce with abstraction, and truce with a MuseWhose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse:Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels,Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels?My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor poet,Your courage, much more than your prudence, you show it:In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle:He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle:Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em,He'd up the back stairs, and by G—, he would steal 'em,Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em;It is not, out-do him—the task is, out-thieve him!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18911"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18911,
        ""poem.id"": 18911,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Bonie Wee Thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18912"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18912,
        ""poem.id"": 18912,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—behold, My Love, How Green The Groves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18913"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18913,
        ""poem.id"": 18913,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:00:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—i Hae A Wife O' My Ain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18914"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18914,
        ""poem.id"": 18914,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—fairest Maid On Devon's Banks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18915"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18915,
        ""poem.id"": 18915,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Young Highland Rover"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18916"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18916,
        ""poem.id"": 18916,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—guid Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18917"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18917,
        ""poem.id"": 18917,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—by Allan Stream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18918"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18918,
        ""poem.id"": 18918,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph For James Smith"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18919"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18919,
        ""poem.id"": 18919,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Complimentary Epigram To Mrs. Riddell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18920"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18920,
        ""poem.id"": 18920,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—of A' The Airts The Wind Can Blaw"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18921"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18921,
        ""poem.id"": 18921,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address Spoken By Miss Fontenelle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;So sought a poet, roosted near the skies,Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;And last, my prologue-business slily hinted.\"Ma'am, let me tell you,\" quoth my man of rhymes,\"I know your bent—these are no laughing times:Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears—Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears;With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,Waving on high the desolating brand,Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?\"I could no more—askance the creature eyeing,\"D'ye think,\" said I, \"this face was made for crying?I'll laugh, that's poz—nay more, the world shall know it;And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!\"Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,That Misery's another word for Grief:I also think—so may I be a bride!That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive—To make three guineas do the work of five:Laugh in Misfortune's face—the beldam witch!Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove;Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,Peerest to meditate the healing leap:Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?Laugh at her follies—laugh e'en at thyself:Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,And love a kinder—that's your grand specific.To sum up all, be merry, I advise;And as we're merry, may we still be wise."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18922"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18922,
        ""poem.id"": 18922,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Stanzas, On The Same Occasion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18923"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18923,
        ""poem.id"": 18923,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ballad On Mr. Heron's Election—no. 1"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHOM will you send to London town,To Parliament and a' that?Or wha in a' the country roundThe best deserves to fa' that?For a' that, and a' that,Thro' Galloway and a' that,Where is the Laird or belted KnightThe best deserves to fa' that?Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,(And wha is't never saw that?)Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met,And has a doubt of a' that?For a' that, and a' that,Here's Heron yet for a' that!The independent patriot,The honest man, and a' that.Tho' wit and worth, in either sex,Saint Mary's Isle can shaw that,Wi' Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix,And weel does Selkirk fa' that.For a' that, and a' that,Here's Heron yet for a' that!The independent commonerShall be the man for a' that.But why should we to Nobles jouk,And is't against the law, that?For why, a Lord may be a gowk,Wi' ribband, star and a' that,For a' that, and a' that,Here's Heron yet for a' that!A Lord may be a lousy loun,Wi' ribband, star and a' that.A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,Wi' uncle's purse and a' that;But we'll hae ane frae mang oursels,A man we ken, and a' that.For a' that, and a' that,Here's Heron yet for a' that!For we're not to be bought and sold,Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that.Then let us drink—The Stewartry,Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,Our representative to be,For weel he's worthy a' that.For a' that, and a' that,Here's Heron yet for a' that!A House of Commons such as he,They wad be blest that saw that."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18924"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18924,
        ""poem.id"": 18924,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—had I A Cave"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18925"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18925,
        ""poem.id"": 18925,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Bonie Moor-Hen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18926"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18926,
        ""poem.id"": 18926,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:01:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ode For General Washington's Birthday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell,No lyre Æolian I awake;'Tis liberty's bold note I swell,Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!See gathering thousands, while I sing,A broken chain exulting bring,And dash it in a tyrant's face,And dare him to his very beard,And tell him he no more is feared—No more the despot of Columbia's race!A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,They shout—a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.Where is man's god-like form?Where is that brow erect and bold—That eye that can unmov'd beholdThe wildest rage, the loudest stormThat e'er created fury dared to raise?Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,That tremblest at a despot's nod,Yet, crouching under the iron rod,Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow!Art thou of man's Imperial line?Dost boast that countenance divine?Each skulking feature answers, No!But come, ye sons of Liberty,Columbia's offspring, brave as free,In danger's hour still flaming in the van,Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!Alfred! on thy starry throne,Surrounded by the tuneful choir,The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,No more thy England own!Dare injured nations form the great design,To make detested tyrants bleed?Thy England execrates the glorious deed!Beneath her hostile banners waving,Every pang of honour braving,England in thunder calls, \"The tyrant's cause is mine!\"That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoiceAnd hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,That hour which saw the generous English nameLinkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,To thee I turn with swimming eyes;Where is that soul of Freedom fled?Immingled with the mighty dead,Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace liesHear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,Nor give the coward secret breath!Is this the ancient Caledonian form,Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!—Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,No more that glance lightens afar;That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18927"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18927,
        ""poem.id"": 18927,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O A' ye pious godly flocks,Weel fed on pastures orthodox,Wha now will keep you frae the fox,Or worrying tykes?Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,About the dykes?The twa best herds in a' the wast,The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blastThese five an' twenty simmers past—Oh, dool to tell!Hae had a bitter black out-castAtween themsel'.O, Moddie, 1 man, an' wordy Russell, 2How could you raise so vile a bustle;Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,An' think it fine!The L—'s cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,Sin' I hae min'.O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckitYour duty ye wad sae negleckit,Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckitTo wear the plaid;But by the brutes themselves eleckit,To be their guide.What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?—Sae hale and hearty every shank!Nae poison'd soor Arminian stankHe let them taste;Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, drank,—O, sic a feast!The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,Baith out an in;An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,An' sell their skin.What herd like Russell tell'd his tale;His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,He kenn'd the L—'s sheep, ilka tail,Owre a' the height;An' saw gin they were sick or hale,At the first sight.He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,Or nobly fling the gospel club,And New-Light herds could nicely drubOr pay their skin;Could shake them o'er the burning dub,Or heave them in.Sic twa-O! do I live to see't?—Sic famous twa should disagree't,And names, like \"villain,\" \"hypocrite,\"Ilk ither gi'en,While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite,Say neither's liein!A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,There's Duncan 3 deep, an' Peebles 4 shaul,But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 5We trust in thee,That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld,Till they agree.Consider, sirs, how we're beset;There's scarce a new herd that we get,But comes frae 'mang that cursed set,I winna name;I hope frae heav'n to see them yetIn fiery flame.Dalrymple 6 has been lang our fae,M'Gill 7 has wrought us meikle wae,An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae, 8And baith the Shaws, 9That aft hae made us black an' blae,Wi' vengefu' paws.Auld Wodrow 10 lang has hatch'd mischief;We thought aye death wad bring relief;But he has gotten, to our grief,Ane to succeed him,A chield wha' 11 soundly buff our beef;I meikle dread him.And mony a ane that I could tell,Wha fain wad openly rebel,Forby turn-coats amang oursel',There's Smith 12 for ane;I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,An' that ye'll fin'.O! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills,By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,Come, join your counsel and your skillsTo cowe the lairds,An' get the brutes the power themsel'sTo choose their herds.Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,An' Learning in a woody dance,An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,That bites sae sair,Be banished o'er the sea to France:Let him bark there.Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,M'Gill's close nervous excellenceM'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,An' guid M'Math,Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,May a' pack aff."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18928"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18928,
        ""poem.id"": 18928,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,A' ye wha live and never think,Come, mourn wi' me!Our billie 's gien us a' a jink,An' owre the sea!Lament him a' ye rantin core,Wha dearly like a random splore;Nae mair he'll join the merry roar;In social key;For now he's taen anither shore.An' owre the sea!The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,And in their dear petitions place him:The widows, wives, an' a' may bless himWi' tearfu' e'e;For weel I wat they'll sairly miss himThat's owre the sea!O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,'Twad been nae plea;But he was gleg as ony wumble,That's owre the sea!Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,In flinders flee:He was her Laureat mony a year,That's owre the sea!He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-westLang mustering up a bitter blast;A jillet brak his heart at last,Ill may she be!So, took a berth afore the mast,An' owre the sea.To tremble under Fortune's cummock,On a scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,Wi' his proud, independent stomach,Could ill agree;So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,An' owre the sea.He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;He dealt it free:The Muse was a' that he took pride in,That's owre the sea.Jamaica bodies, use him weel,An' hap him in cozie biel:Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,An' fou o' glee:He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,That's owre the sea.Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!Your native soil was right ill-willie;But may ye flourish like a lily,Now bonilie!I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie,Tho' owre the sea!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18929"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18929,
        ""poem.id"": 18929,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Grace Before And After Meat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18930"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18930,
        ""poem.id"": 18930,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Farewell To The Banks Of Ayr"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18931"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18931,
        ""poem.id"": 18931,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""YE Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,Wha represent our brughs an' shires,An' doucely manage our affairsIn parliament,To you a simple poet's pray'rsAre humbly sent.Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,To see her sittin on her arseLow i' the dust,And scriechinh out prosaic verse,An like to brust!Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an' me's in great affliction,E'er sin' they laid that curst restrictionOn aqua-vit&æ;An' rouse them up to strong conviction,An' move their pity.Stand forth an' tell yon Premier youthThe honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,His servants humble:The muckle deevil blaw you southIf ye dissemble!Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!Let posts an' pensions sink or soomWi' them wha grant them;If honestly they canna come,Far better want them.In gath'rin votes you were na slack;Now stand as tightly by your tack:Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,An' hum an' haw;But raise your arm, an' tell your crackBefore them a'.Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;An' d—mn'd excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a stell,Triumphant crushin't like a mussel,Or limpet shell!Then, on the tither hand present her—A blackguard smuggler right behint her,An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintnerColleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf a' kind coin.Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,To see his poor auld mither's potThus dung in staves,An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,Trode i' the mire out o' sight?But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell, 2There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An' tie some hose well.God bless your Honours! can ye see't—The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,An' no get warmly to your feet,An' gar them hear it,An' tell them wi'a patriot-heatYe winna bear it?Some o' you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an' pause,An' with rhetoric clause on clauseTo mak harangues;Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa'sAuld Scotland's wrangs.Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot I'se warran';Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4An' that glib-gabbit Highland baron,The Laird o' Graham; 5An' ane, a chap that's damn'd aulfarran',Dundas his name: 6Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9An' mony ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented,If poets e'er are represented;I ken if that your sword were wanted,Ye'd lend a hand;But when there's ought to say anent it,Ye're at a stand.Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle;Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,Ye'll see't or lang,She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,Anither sang.This while she's been in crankous mood,Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play'd her that pliskie!)An' now she's like to rin red-wudAbout her whisky.An' Lord! if ance they pit her till't,Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,An'durk an' pistol at her belt,She'll tak the streets,An' rin her whittle to the hilt,I' the first she meets!For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,An' to the muckle house repair,Wi' instant speed,An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear,To get remead.Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks;But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!E'en cowe the cadie!An' send him to his dicing boxAn' sportin' lady.Tell you guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 11I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's 12Nine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,Was kindly seek.Could he some commutation broach,I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He needna fear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She's just a devil wi' a rung;An' if she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho' by the neck she should be strung,She'll no desert.And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still you mither's heart support ye;Then, tho'a minister grow dorty,An' kick your place,Ye'll snap your gingers, poor an' hearty,Before his face.God bless your Honours, a' your days,Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,That haunt St. Jamie's!Your humble poet sings an' prays,While Rab his name is.POSTSCRIPTLET half-starv'd slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne're envies,But, blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boysTak aff their whisky.What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,The scented groves;Or, hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves!Their gun's a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o' powther;Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring switherTo stan' or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a'throw'ther,To save their skin.But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George's will,An' there's the foe!He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;Wi'bluidy hand a welcome gies him;An' when he fa's,His latest draught o' breathin lea'es himIn faint huzzas.Sages their solemn een may steek,An' raise a philosophic reek,An' physically causes seek,In clime an' season;But tell me whisky's name in GreekI'll tell the reason.Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,Till, whare ye sit on craps o' heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom an' whisky gang thegither!Take aff your dram!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18932"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18932,
        ""poem.id"": 18932,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Commemoration Of Rodney's Victory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18933"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18933,
        ""poem.id"": 18933,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On &Quot;Wee Johnnie&Quot;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18934"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18934,
        ""poem.id"": 18934,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""NOW Nature hangs her mantle greenOn every blooming tree,And spreads her sheets o' daisies whiteOut o'er the grassy lea;Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,And glads the azure skies;But nought can glad the weary wightThat fast in durance lies.Now laverocks wake the merry mornAloft on dewy wing;The merle, in his noontide bow'r,Makes woodland echoes ring;The mavis wild wi' mony a note,Sings drowsy day to rest:In love and freedom they rejoice,Wi' care nor thrall opprest.Now blooms the lily by the bank,The primrose down the brae;The hawthorn's budding in the glen,And milk-white is the slae:The meanest hind in fair ScotlandMay rove their sweets amang;But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,Maun lie in prison strang.I was the Queen o' bonie France,Where happy I hae been;Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,As blythe lay down at e'en:And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,And mony a traitor there;Yet here I lie in foreign bands,And never-ending care.But as for thee, thou false woman,My sister and my fae,Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a swordThat thro' thy soul shall gae;The weeping blood in woman's breastWas never known to thee;Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woeFrae woman's pitying e'e.My son! my son! may kinder starsUpon thy fortune shine;And may those pleasures gild thy reign,That ne'er wad blink on mine!God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,Or turn their hearts to thee:And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,Remember him for me!O! soon, to me, may Summer sunsNae mair light up the morn!Nae mair to me the Autumn windsWave o'er the yellow corn?And, in the narrow house of death,Let Winter round me rave;And the next flow'rs that deck the Spring,Bloom on my peaceful grave!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18935"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18935,
        ""poem.id"": 18935,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—braving Angry Winer's Storms"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18936"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18936,
        ""poem.id"": 18936,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—beware O' Bonie Ann"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18937"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18937,
        ""poem.id"": 18937,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mr. William Smellie: A Sketch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18938"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18938,
        ""poem.id"": 18938,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:02:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;—If there's a hole in a' your coats,I rede you tent it:A chield's amang you takin notes,And, faith, he'll prent it:If in your bounds ye chance to lightUpon a fine, fat fodgel wight,O' stature short, but genius bright,That's he, mark weel;And wow! he has an unco sleightO' cauk and keel.By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,Or kirk deserted by its riggin,It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug inSome eldritch part,Wi' deils, they say, L—d save's! colleaguinAt some black art.Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar,Warlocks and witches,Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,Ye midnight bitches.It's tauld he was a sodger bred,And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,And dog-skin wallet,And taen the—Antiquarian trade,I think they call it.He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,A towmont gude;And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,Before the flood.Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;That which distinguished the genderO' Balaam's ass:A broomstick o' the witch of Endor,Weel shod wi' brass.Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' glegThe cut of Adam's philibeg;The knife that nickit Abel's craigHe'll prove you fully,It was a faulding jocteleg,Or lang-kail gullie.But wad ye see him in his glee,For meikle glee and fun has he,Then set him down, and twa or threeGude fellows wi' him:And port, O port! shine thou a wee,And THEN ye'll see him!Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!—Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,They sair misca' thee;I'd take the rascal by the nose,Wad say, \"Shame fa' thee!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18939"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18939,
        ""poem.id"": 18939,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—anna, Thy Charms"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18940"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18940,
        ""poem.id"": 18940,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—stay My Charmer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18941"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18941,
        ""poem.id"": 18941,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Glenriddell's Fox Breaking His Chain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THOU, Liberty, thou art my theme;Not such as idle poets dream,Who trick thee up a heathen goddessThat a fantastic cap and rod has;Such stale conceits are poor and silly;I paint thee out, a Highland filly,A sturdy, stubborn, handsome dapple,As sleek's a mouse, as round's an apple,That when thou pleasest canst do wonders;But when thy luckless rider blunders,Or if thy fancy should demur there,Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further.These things premised, I sing a Fox,Was caught among his native rocks,And to a dirty kennel chained,How he his liberty regained.Glenriddell! Whig without a stain,A Whig in principle and grain,Could'st thou enslave a free-born creature,A native denizen of Nature?How could'st thou, with a heart so good,(A better ne'er was sluiced with blood!)Nail a poor devil to a tree,That ne'er did harm to thine or thee?The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was,Quite frantic in his country's cause;And oft was Reynard's prison passing,And with his brother-Whigs canvassingThe Rights of Men, the Powers of Women,With all the dignity of Freemen.Sir Reynard daily heard debatesOf Princes', Kings', and Nations' fates,With many rueful, bloody storiesOf Tyrants, Jacobites, and Tories:From liberty how angels fell,That now are galley-slaves in hell;How Nimrod first the trade beganOf binding Slavery's chains on Man;How fell Semiramis—G—d d-mn her!Did first, with sacrilegious hammer,(All ills till then were trivial matters)For Man dethron'd forge hen-peck fetters;How Xerxes, that abandoned Tory,Thought cutting throats was reaping glory,Until the stubborn Whigs of SpartaTaught him great Nature's Magna Charta;How mighty Rome her fiat hurl'dResistless o'er a bowing world,And, kinder than they did desire,Polish'd mankind with sword and fire;With much, too tedious to relate,Of ancient and of modern date,But ending still, how Billy Pitt(Unlucky boy!) with wicked wit,Has gagg'd old Britain, drain'd her coffer,As butchers bind and bleed a heifer,Thus wily Reynard by degrees,In kennel listening at his ease,Suck'd in a mighty stock of knowledge,As much as some folks at a College;Knew Britain's rights and constitution,Her aggrandisement, diminution,How fortune wrought us good from evil;Let no man, then, despise the Devil,As who should say, ‘I never can need him,'Since we to scoundrels owe our freedom."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18942"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18942,
        ""poem.id"": 18942,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—sic A Wife As Willie Had"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18943"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18943,
        ""poem.id"": 18943,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Lass Of Cessnock Banks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;Could I describe her shape and mein;Our lasses a' she far excels,An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.She's sweeter than the morning dawn,When rising Phoebus first is seen,And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.She's stately like yon youthful ash,That grows the cowslip braes between,And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,When purest in the dewy morn;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her looks are like the vernal May,When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,While birds rejoice on every spray;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her hair is like the curling mist,That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,When flow'r-reviving rains are past;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,When gleaming sunbeams interveneAnd gild the distant mountain's brow;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,The pride of all the flowery scene,Just opening on its thorny stem;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her bosom's like the nightly snow,When pale the morning rises keen,While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,That sunny walls from Boreas screen;They tempt the taste and charm the sight;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,With fleeces newly washen clean,That slowly mount the rising steep;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,While his mate sits nestling in the bush;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.But it's not her air, her form, her face,Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,An' chiefly in her roguish een."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18944"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18944,
        ""poem.id"": 18944,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Apology To Mr. Syme For Not Dining With Him"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18945"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18945,
        ""poem.id"": 18945,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—kissing My Katie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18946"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18946,
        ""poem.id"": 18946,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Farewell To The Brethren Of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18947"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18947,
        ""poem.id"": 18947,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Belles Of Mauchline"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18948"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18948,
        ""poem.id"": 18948,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rantin, Rovin Robin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18949"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18949,
        ""poem.id"": 18949,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Chloris Being Ill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18951"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18951,
        ""poem.id"": 18951,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""She's Fair And Fause"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18952"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18952,
        ""poem.id"": 18952,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18953"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18953,
        ""poem.id"": 18953,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:03:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Go On, Sweet Bird, And Soothe My Care"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18954"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18954,
        ""poem.id"": 18954,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lovely Young Jessie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18955"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18955,
        ""poem.id"": 18955,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Winter It Is Past"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18956"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18956,
        ""poem.id"": 18956,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Grace After Meat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18957"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18957,
        ""poem.id"": 18957,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Churchman Am I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18958"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18958,
        ""poem.id"": 18958,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Charming Month Of May"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18959"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18959,
        ""poem.id"": 18959,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Remorseful Apology"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18960"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18960,
        ""poem.id"": 18960,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,An' hing us owre the ingle,I set me down to pass the time,An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,In hamely, westlin jingle.While frosty winds blaw in the drift,Ben to the chimla lug,I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,That live sae bien an' snug:I tent less, and want lessTheir roomy fire-side;But hanker, and canker,To see their cursed pride.It's hardly in a body's pow'rTo keep, at times, frae being sour,To see how things are shar'd;How best o' chiels are whiles in want,While coofs on countless thousands rant,And ken na how to wair't;But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,Tho' we hae little gear;We're fit to win our daily bread,As lang's we're hale and fier:\"Mair spier na, nor fear na,\" 1Auld age ne'er mind a feg;The last o't, the warst o'tIs only but to beg.To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,Is doubtless, great distress!Yet then content could make us blest;Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a tasteOf truest happiness.The honest heart that's free frae a'Intended fraud or guile,However Fortune kick the ba',Has aye some cause to smile;An' mind still, you'll find still,A comfort this nae sma';Nae mair then we'll care then,Nae farther can we fa'.What tho', like commoners of air,We wander out, we know not where,But either house or hal',Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,Are free alike to all.In days when daisies deck the ground,And blackbirds whistle clear,With honest joy our hearts will bound,To see the coming year:On braes when we please, then,We'll sit an' sowth a tune;Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,An' sing't when we hae done.It's no in titles nor in rank;It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,To purchase peace and rest:It's no in makin' muckle, mair;It's no in books, it's no in lear,To make us truly blest:If happiness hae not her seatAn' centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great,But never can be blest;Nae treasures, nor pleasuresCould make us happy lang;The heart aye's the part ayeThat makes us right or wrang.Think ye, that sic as you and I,Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and dry,Wi' never ceasing toil;Think ye, are we less blest than they,Wha scarcely tent us in their way,As hardly worth their while?Alas! how aft in haughty mood,God's creatures they oppress!Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,They riot in excess!Baith careless and fearlessOf either heaven or hell;Esteeming and deemingIt's a' an idle tale!Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce,Nor make our scanty pleasures less,By pining at our state:And, even should misfortunes come,I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some—An's thankfu' for them yet.They gie the wit of age to youth;They let us ken oursel';They make us see the naked truth,The real guid and ill:Tho' losses an' crossesBe lessons right severe,There's wit there, ye'll get there,Ye'll find nae other where.But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,And flatt'ry I detest)This life has joys for you and I;An' joys that riches ne'er could buy,An' joys the very best.There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,The lover an' the frien';Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,And I my darling Jean!It warms me, it charms me,To mention but her name:It heats me, it beets me,An' sets me a' on flame!O all ye Pow'rs who rule above!O Thou whose very self art love!Thou know'st my words sincere!The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,Or my more dear immortal part,Is not more fondly dear!When heart-corroding care and griefDeprive my soul of rest,Her dear idea brings relief,And solace to my breast.Thou Being, All-seeing,O hear my fervent pray'r;Still take her, and make herThy most peculiar care!All hail! ye tender feelings dear!The smile of love, the friendly tear,The sympathetic glow!Long since, this world's thorny waysHad number'd out my weary days,Had it not been for you!Fate still has blest me with a friend,In ev'ry care and ill;And oft a more endearing band—A tie more tender still.It lightens, it brightensThe tenebrific scene,To meet with, and greet withMy Davie, or my Jean!O, how that name inspires my style!The words come skelpin, rank an' file,Amaist before I ken!The ready measure rins as fine,As Phoebus an' the famous NineWere glowrin owre my pen.My spaviet Pegasus will limp,Till ance he's fairly het;And then he'll hilch, and stilt, an' jimp,And rin an unco fit:But least then the beast thenShould rue this hasty ride,I'll light now, and dight nowHis sweaty, wizen'd hide."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18961"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18961,
        ""poem.id"": 18961,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—&Quot;Indeed Will I,&Quot; Quo' Findlay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18962"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18962,
        ""poem.id"": 18962,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment Of Song—the Night Was Still"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18963"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18963,
        ""poem.id"": 18963,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Monody On A Lady, Famed For Her Caprice"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18964"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18964,
        ""poem.id"": 18964,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Epitaph On Captain Matthew Henderson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18965"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18965,
        ""poem.id"": 18965,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:04:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—mary Morison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18966"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18966,
        ""poem.id"": 18966,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""MY lord, I know your noble earWoe ne'er assails in vain;Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hearYour humble slave complain,How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,In flaming summer-pride,Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,And drink my crystal tide. 1The lightly-jumping, glowrin' trouts,That thro' my waters play,If, in their random, wanton spouts,They near the margin stray;If, hapless chance! they linger lang,I'm scorching up so shallow,They're left the whitening stanes amang,In gasping death to wallow.Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,As poet Burns came by.That, to a bard, I should be seenWi' half my channel dry;A panegyric rhyme, I ween,Ev'n as I was, he shor'd me;But had I in my glory been,He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,In twisting strength I rin;There, high my boiling torrent smokes,Wild-roaring o'er a linn:Enjoying each large spring and well,As Nature gave them me,I am, altho' I say't mysel',Worth gaun a mile to see.Would then my noble master pleaseTo grant my highest wishes,He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,And bonie spreading bushes.Delighted doubly then, my lord,You'll wander on my banks,And listen mony a grateful birdReturn you tuneful thanks.The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,Shall to the skies aspire;The gowdspink, Music's gayest child,Shall sweetly join the choir;The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,The mavis mild and mellow;The robin pensive Autumn cheer,In all her locks of yellow.This, too, a covert shall ensure,To shield them from the storm;And coward maukin sleep secure,Low in her grassy form:Here shall the shepherd make his seat,To weave his crown of flow'rs;Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat,From prone-descending show'rs.And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,Shall meet the loving pair,Despising worlds, with all their wealth,As empty idle care;The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms,The hour of heav'n to grace;And birks extend their fragrant armsTo screen the dear embrace.Here haply too, at vernal dawn,Some musing bard may stray,And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,And misty mountain grey;Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,Mild-chequering thro' the trees,Rave to my darkly dashing stream,Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,My lowly banks o'erspread,And view, deep-bending in the pool,Their shadow's wat'ry bed:Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,My craggy cliffs adorn;And, for the little songster's nest,The close embow'ring thorn.So may old Scotia's darling hope,Your little angel bandSpring, like their fathers, up to propTheir honour'd native land!So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken,To social-flowing glasses,The grace be—\"Athole's honest men,And Athole's bonie lasses!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18967"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18967,
        ""poem.id"": 18967,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To The Unco Guid"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O YE wha are sae guid yoursel',Sae pious and sae holy,Ye've nought to do but mark and tellYour neibours' fauts and folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supplied wi' store o' water;The heaped happer's ebbing still,An' still the clap plays clatter.Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortalsThat frequent pass douce Wisdom's doorFor glaikit Folly's portals:I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences—Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,And shudder at the niffer;But cast a moment's fair regard,What maks the mighty differ;Discount what scant occasion gave,That purity ye pride in;And (what's aft mair than a' the lave),Your better art o' hidin.Think, when your castigated pulseGies now and then a wallop!What ragings must his veins convulse,That still eternal gallop!Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o' baith to sail,It maks a unco lee-way.See Social Life and Glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,Till, quite transmugrified, they're grownDebauchery and Drinking:O would they stay to calculateTh' eternal consequences;Or your more dreaded hell to state,Damnation of expenses!Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,Tied up in godly laces,Before ye gie poor Frailty names,Suppose a change o' cases;A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,A treach'rous inclination—But let me whisper i' your lug,Ye're aiblins nae temptation.Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,To step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,—The moving Why they do it;And just as lamely can ye mark,How far perhaps they rue it.Who made the heart, 'tis He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord, its various tone,Each spring, its various bias:Then at the balance let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18968"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18968,
        ""poem.id"": 18968,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Solemn League And Covenant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18969"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18969,
        ""poem.id"": 18969,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—fragment—there Was A Bonie Lass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18970"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18970,
        ""poem.id"": 18970,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gardener Wi' His Paidle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18971"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18971,
        ""poem.id"": 18971,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—i'M O'Er Young To Marry Yet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18972"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18972,
        ""poem.id"": 18972,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—o Were My Love You Lilac Fair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18973"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18973,
        ""poem.id"": 18973,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Inventory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""SIR, as your mandate did request,I send you here a faithfu' list,O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith,To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle,As ever drew afore a pettle.My hand-afore 's a guid auld has-been,An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been:My hand-ahin 's a weel gaun fillie,That aft has borne me hame frae Killie. 2An' your auld borough mony a timeIn days when riding was nae crime.But ance, when in my wooing prideI, like a blockhead, boost to ride,The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,(L—d pardon a' my sins, an' that too!)I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.My furr-ahin 's a wordy beast,As e'er in tug or tow was traced.The fourth's a Highland Donald hastle,A d—n'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!Foreby a cowt, o' cowts the wale,As ever ran afore a tail:Gin he be spar'd to be a beast,He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few,Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken;I made a poker o' the spin'le,An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.For men, I've three mischievous boys,Run-deils for ranting an' for noise;A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other:Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.I rule them as I ought, discreetly,An' aften labour them completely;An' aye on Sundays duly, nightly,I on the Questions targe them tightly;Till, faith! wee Davock's grown sae gleg,Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,As fast as ony in the dwalling.I've nane in female servant station,(L—d keep me aye frae a' temptation!)I hae nae wife-and thay my bliss is,An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,I ken the deevils darena touch me.Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted!My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,She stares the daddy in her face,Enough of ought ye like but grace;But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,I've paid enough for her already;An' gin ye tax her or her mither,By the L—d, ye'se get them a' thegither!And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,Nae kind of licence out I'm takin:Frae this time forth, I do declareI'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,I've sturdy bearers, Gude the thankit!The kirk and you may tak you that,It puts but little in your pat;Sae dinna put me in your beuk,Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.This list, wi' my ain hand I wrote it,The day and date as under noted;Then know all ye whom it concerns,Subscripsi huic, ROBERT BURNS.MOSSGIEL, February 22, 1786."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18974"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18974,
        ""poem.id"": 18974,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Impromptu On Mrs. Riddell's Birthday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18975"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18975,
        ""poem.id"": 18975,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On The Seas And Far Away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18978"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18978,
        ""poem.id"": 18978,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On A Lap-Dog"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18979"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18979,
        ""poem.id"": 18979,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Laddie's Dear Sel'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18980"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18980,
        ""poem.id"": 18980,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jamie, Come Try Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18981"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18981,
        ""poem.id"": 18981,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:05:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lament"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""O THOU pale orb that silent shinesWhile care-untroubled mortals sleep!Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.And wanders here to wail and weep!With woe I nightly vigils keep,Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;And mourn, in lamentation deep,How life and love are all a dream!I joyless view thy rays adornThe faintly-marked, distant hill;I joyless view thy trembling horn,Reflected in the gurgling rill:My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!Ah! must the agonizing thrillFor ever bar returning peace!No idly-feign'd, poetic pains,My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim:No shepherd's pipe—Arcadian strains;No fabled tortures, quaint and tame.The plighted faith, the mutual flame,The oft-attested pow'rs above,The promis'd father's tender name;These were the pledges of my love!Encircled in her clasping arms,How have the raptur'd moments flown!How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,For her dear sake, and her's alone!And, must I think it! is she gone,My secret heart's exulting boast?And does she heedless hear my groan?And is she ever, ever lost?Oh! can she bear so base a heart,So lost to honour, lost to truth,As from the fondest lover part,The plighted husband of her youth?Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!Her way may lie thro' rough distress!Then, who her pangs and pains will sootheHer sorrows share, and make them less?Ye wingèd hours that o'er us pass'd,Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,Your dear remembrance in my breastMy fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:That breast, how dreary now, and void,For her too scanty once of room!Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,And not a wish to gild the gloom!The morn, that warns th' approaching day,Awakes me up to toil and woe;I see the hours in long array,That I must suffer, lingering, slow:Full many a pang, and many a throe,Keen recollection's direful train,Must wring my soul, were Phoebus, low,Shall kiss the distant western main.And when my nightly couch I try,Sore harass'd out with care and grief,My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,Keep watchings with the nightly thief:Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright:Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings reliefFrom such a horror-breathing night.O thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanseNow highest reign'st, with boundless swayOft has thy silent-marking glanceObserv'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray!The time, unheeded, sped away,While love's luxurious pulse beat high,Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,To mark the mutual-kindling eye.Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!Scenes, never, never to return!Scenes, if in stupor I forget,Again I feel, again I burn!From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mournA faithless woman's broken vow!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18982"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18982,
        ""poem.id"": 18982,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On A Country Laird (Cardoness)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18983"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18983,
        ""poem.id"": 18983,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—on A Bank Of Flowers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18984"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18984,
        ""poem.id"": 18984,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18985"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18985,
        ""poem.id"": 18985,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""379. Song—fragment—love For Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18986"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18986,
        ""poem.id"": 18986,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lovely Polly Stewart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18987"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18987,
        ""poem.id"": 18987,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph For William Nicol, High School, Edinburgh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18988"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18988,
        ""poem.id"": 18988,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Yon Wild Mossy Mountains"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18991"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18991,
        ""poem.id"": 18991,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Girl She's Airy: A Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18992"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18992,
        ""poem.id"": 18992,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inscription To Chloris"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18993"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18993,
        ""poem.id"": 18993,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Grace After Dinner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18994"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18994,
        ""poem.id"": 18994,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Grace After Dinner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18995"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18995,
        ""poem.id"": 18995,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Whistle: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North.Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—\"The Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!\"Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,What champions ventur'd, what champions fell:The son of great Loda was conqueror still,And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd;Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,The jovial contest again have renew'd.Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flawCraigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law;And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,And once more, in claret, try which was the man.\"By the gods of the ancients!\" Downrightly replies,\"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.\"Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe, or his friend;Said, \"Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,\"And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame,Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.A bard was selected to witness the fray,And tell future ages the feats of the day;A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.The dinner being over, the claret they ply,And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er:Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;He left the foul business to folks less divine.The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend!Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:—\"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!\"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18996"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18996,
        ""poem.id"": 18996,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:06:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roams,Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;An inmate in the casual shed,On transient pity's bounty fed,Haunted by busy memory's bitter tale!Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,But He, who should imperial purple wear,Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head!His wretched refuge, dark despair,While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,And distant far the faithful fewWho would his sorrows share.False flatterer, Hope, away!Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,To prove our loyal truth-we can no more,And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,Submissive, low adore.Ye honored, mighty Dead,Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,Your King, your Country, and her laws,From great DUNDEE, who smiling Victory led,And fell a Martyr in her arms,(What breast of northern ice but warms!)To bold BALMERINO'S undying name,Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame,Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim:Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie,It only lags, the fatal hour,Your blood shall, with incessant cry,Awake at last, th' unsparing Power;As from the cliff, with thundering course,The snowy ruin smokes alongWith doubling speed and gathering force,Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale;So Vengeance' arm, ensanguin'd, strong,Shall with resistless might assail,Usurping Brunswick's pride shall lay,And STEWART'S wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay.PERDITION, baleful child of night!Rise and revenge the injured rightOf STEWART'S royal race:Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell,Till all the frighted echoes tellThe blood-notes of the chase!Full on the quarry point their view,Full on the base usurping crew,The tools of faction, and the nation's curse!Hark how the cry grows on the wind;They leave the lagging gale behind,Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour;With murdering eyes already they devour;See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey,His life one poor despairing day,Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!Such havock, howling all abroad,Their utter ruin bring,The base apostates to their God,Or rebels to their King."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18997"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18997,
        ""poem.id"": 18997,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragment Of Song—&Quot;My Jean!&Quot;"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18998"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18998,
        ""poem.id"": 18998,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—whistle And I'Ll Come To You"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""18999"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 18999,
        ""poem.id"": 18999,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Highland Balou"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19000"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19000,
        ""poem.id"": 19000,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written On A Bank-Note"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19001"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19001,
        ""poem.id"": 19001,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Ruin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19002"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19002,
        ""poem.id"": 19002,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thine Am I, My Faithful Fair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19003"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19003,
        ""poem.id"": 19003,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Inconstancy In Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19004"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19004,
        ""poem.id"": 19004,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Another On The Said Occasion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19005"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19005,
        ""poem.id"": 19005,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Bonie Bell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19006"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19006,
        ""poem.id"": 19006,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How Cruel Are The Parents"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19007"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19007,
        ""poem.id"": 19007,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:07:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prayer Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19008"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19008,
        ""poem.id"": 19008,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bookworms"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19009"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19009,
        ""poem.id"": 19009,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bonie Jean: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THERE was a lass, and she was fair,At kirk or market to be seen;When a' our fairest maids were met,The fairest maid was bonie Jean.And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,And aye she sang sae merrilie;The blythest bird upon the bushHad ne'er a lighter heart than she.But hawks will rob the tender joysThat bless the little lintwhite's nest;And frost will blight the fairest flowers,And love will break the soundest rest.Young Robie was the brawest lad,The flower and pride of a' the glen;And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,And wanton naigies nine or ten.He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!As in the bosom of the stream,The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;So trembling, pure, was tender loveWithin the breast of bonie Jean.And now she works her mammie's wark,And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;Yet wist na what her ail might be,Or what wad make her weel again.But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,And didna joy blink in her e'e,As Robie tauld a tale o' loveAe e'ening on the lily lea?The sun was sinking in the west,The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;His cheek to hers he fondly laid,And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:\"O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;O canst thou think to fancy me,Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,And learn to tent the farms wi' me?\"At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,Or naething else to trouble thee;But stray amang the heather-bells,And tent the waving corn wi' me.\"Now what could artless Jeanie do?She had nae will to say him na:At length she blush'd a sweet consent,And love was aye between them twa."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19010"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19010,
        ""poem.id"": 19010,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To Beelzebub"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,Unskaithed by hunger'd Highland boors;Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,May twin auld Scotland o' a lifeShe likes—as butchers like a knife.Faith you and Applecross were rightTo keep the Highland hounds in sight:I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,Than let them ance out owre the water,Then up among thae lakes and seas,They'll mak what rules and laws they please:Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;Some Washington again may head them,Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,Till (God knows what may be effectedWhen by such heads and hearts directed),Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mireMay to Patrician rights aspire!Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,—An' whare will ye get Howes and ClintonsTo bring them to a right repentance—To cowe the rebel generation,An' save the honour o' the nation?They, an' be d—d! what right hae theyTo meat, or sleep, or light o' day?Far less—to riches, pow'r, or freedom,But what your lordship likes to gie them?But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!Your hand's owre light to them, I fear;Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,I canna say but they do gaylies;They lay aside a' tender mercies,An' tirl the hallions to the birses;Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:But smash them! crash them a' to spails,An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;Let wark an' hunger mak them sober!The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!An' if the wives an' dirty bratsCome thiggin at your doors an' yetts,Flaffin wi' duds, an' grey wi' beas',Frightin away your ducks an' geese;Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,The langest thong, the fiercest growler,An' gar the tatter'd gypsies packWi' a' their bastards on their back!Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,An' in my house at hame to greet you;Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,The benmost neuk beside the ingle,At my right han' assigned your seat,'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate:Or (if you on your station tarrow),Between Almagro and Pizarro,A seat, I'm sure ye're well deservin't;An' till ye come—your humble servant,BEELZEBUB.June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19011"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19011,
        ""poem.id"": 19011,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On Politics"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19012"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19012,
        ""poem.id"": 19012,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—my Wife's A Winsome Wee Thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19013"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19013,
        ""poem.id"": 19013,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Highland Lassie, O"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19014"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19014,
        ""poem.id"": 19014,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—composed In August"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19015"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19015,
        ""poem.id"": 19015,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses On A Parting Kiss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19017"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19017,
        ""poem.id"": 19017,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Impromptu On Carron Iron Works"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19018"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19018,
        ""poem.id"": 19018,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHEN chill November's surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One ev'ning, as I wander'd forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man, whose aged stepSeem'd weary, worn with care;His face furrow'd o'er with years,And hoary was his hair.\"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?\"Began the rev'rend sage;\"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,Or youthful pleasure's rage?Or haply, prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast beganTo wander forth, with me to mournThe miseries of man.\"The sun that overhangs yon moors,Out-spreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty lordling's pride;—I've seen yon weary winter-sunTwice forty times return;And ev'ry time has added proofs,That man was made to mourn.\"O man! while in thy early years,How prodigal of time!Mis-spending all thy precious hours—Thy glorious, youthful prime!Alternate follies take the sway;Licentious passions burn;Which tenfold force gives Nature's law.That man was made to mourn.\"Look not alone on youthful prime,Or manhood's active might;Man then is useful to his kind,Supported in his right:But see him on the edge of life,With cares and sorrows worn;Then Age and Want—oh! ill-match'd pair—Shew man was made to mourn.\"A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure's lap carest;Yet, think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest:But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,All wretched and forlorn,Thro' weary life this lesson learn,That man was made to mourn.\"Many and sharp the num'rous illsInwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heav'n-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,—Man's inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn!\"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow-wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful, tho' a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn.\"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,By Nature's law design'd,Why was an independent wishE'er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty, or scorn?Or why has man the will and pow'rTo make his fellow mourn?\"Yet, let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast:This partial view of human-kindIs surely not the last!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!\"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,The kindest and the best!Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest!The great, the wealthy fear thy blowFrom pomp and pleasure torn;But, oh! a blest relief for thoseThat weary-laden mourn!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19019"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19019,
        ""poem.id"": 19019,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:08:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nature's Law: A Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19020"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19020,
        ""poem.id"": 19020,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prayer In The Prospect Of Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19021"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19021,
        ""poem.id"": 19021,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fall Of The Leaf"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19022"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19022,
        ""poem.id"": 19022,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Caledonia: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THERE was once a day, but old Time wasythen young,That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,From some of your northern deities sprung,(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?)From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would:Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign,And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew:Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,—\"Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!\"With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort,Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.Long quiet she reigned; till thitherward steersA flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand:Repeated, successive, for many long years,They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land:Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside;She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,The daring invaders they fled or they died.The Cameleon-Savage disturb'd her repose,With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose,And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life:The Anglian lion, the terror of France,Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood;But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,He learnèd to fear in his own native wood.The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore;The wild Scandinavian boar issued forthTo wanton in carnage and wallow in gore:O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,No arts could appease them, no arms could repel;But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,Her bright course of glory for ever shall run:For brave Caledonia immortal must be;I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll chuse:The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse;Then, ergo, she'll match them, and match them always."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19023"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19023,
        ""poem.id"": 19023,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bard At Inverary"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/11/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19024"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19024,
        ""poem.id"": 19024,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lord Gregory: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19025"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19025,
        ""poem.id"": 19025,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Mother's Lament For Her Son's Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19026"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19026,
        ""poem.id"": 19026,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Open The Door To Me, Oh"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19027"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19027,
        ""poem.id"": 19027,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""One Night As I Did Wander"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/14/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19028"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19028,
        ""poem.id"": 19028,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Henpecked Husband"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/27/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19029"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19029,
        ""poem.id"": 19029,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Banks Of The Devon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/6/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19030"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19030,
        ""poem.id"": 19030,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Written By Somebody On The Window Of An Inn At Stirling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19031"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19031,
        ""poem.id"": 19031,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:09:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""314. Song—there'Ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19032"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19032,
        ""poem.id"": 19032,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Love My Love In Secret"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19033"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19033,
        ""poem.id"": 19033,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Vision"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THE SUN had clos'd the winter day,The curless quat their roarin play,And hunger'd maukin taen her way,To kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been.The thresher's weary flingin-tree,The lee-lang day had tired me;And when the day had clos'd his e'e,Far i' the west,Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,The auld clay biggin;An' heard the restless rattons squeakAbout the riggin.All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward mus'd on wasted time,How I had spent my youthfu' prime,An' done nae thing,But stringing blethers up in rhyme,For fools to sing.Had I to guid advice but harkit,I might, by this, hae led a market,Or strutted in a bank and clarkitMy cash-account;While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit.Is a' th' amount.I started, mutt'ring, \"blockhead! coof!\"And heav'd on high my waukit loof,To swear by a' yon starry roof,Or some rash aith,That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proofTill my last breath—When click! the string the snick did draw;An' jee! the door gaed to the wa';An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,Now bleezin bright,A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,Come full in sight.Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;The infant aith, half-form'd, was crushtI glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dushtIn some wild glen;When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht,An' steppèd ben.Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughsWere twisted, gracefu', round her brows;I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token;And come to stop those reckless vows,Would soon been broken.A \"hair-brain'd, sentimental trace\"Was strongly markèd in her face;A wildly-witty, rustic graceShone full upon her;Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,Beam'd keen with honour.Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,Till half a leg was scrimply seen;An' such a leg! my bonie JeanCould only peer it;Sae straught, sae taper, tight an' clean—Nane else came near it.Her mantle large, of greenish hue,My gazing wonder chiefly drew:Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threwA lustre grand;And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,A well-known land.Here, rivers in the sea were lost;There, mountains to the skies were toss't:Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,With surging foam;There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,The lordly dome.Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,On to the shore;And many a lesser torrent scuds,With seeming roar.Low, in a sandy valley spread,An ancient borough rear'd her head;Still, as in Scottish story read,She boasts a raceTo ev'ry nobler virtue bred,And polish'd grace. 2By stately tow'r, or palace fair,Or ruins pendent in the air,Bold stems of heroes, here and there,I could discern;Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,With feature stern.My heart did glowing transport feel,To see a race heroic 3 wheel,And brandish round the deep-dyed steel,In sturdy blows;While, back-recoiling, seem'd to reelTheir Suthron foes.His Country's Saviour, 4 mark him well!Bold Richardton's heroic swell,; 5The chief, on Sark who glorious fell, 6In high command;And he whom ruthless fates expelHis native land.There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shadeStalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 7I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'dIn colours strong:Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd,They strode along.Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 8Near many a hermit-fancied cove(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,In musing mood),An aged Judge, I saw him rove,Dispensing good.With deep-struck, reverential awe,The learned Sire and Son I saw: 9To Nature's God, and Nature's law,They gave their lore;This, all its source and end to draw,That, to adore.Brydon's brave ward 10 I well could spy,Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye:Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,To hand him on,Where many a patriot-name on high,And hero shone.DUAN SECONDWith musing-deep, astonish'd stare,I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair;A whispering throb did witness bearOf kindred sweet,When with an elder sister's airShe did me greet.\"All hail! my own inspired bard!In me thy native Muse regard;Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,Thus poorly low;I come to give thee such reward,As we bestow!\"Know, the great genius of this landHas many a light aerial band,Who, all beneath his high command,Harmoniously,As arts or arms they understand,Their labours ply.\"They Scotia's race among them share:Some fire the soldier on to dare;Some rouse the patriot up to bareCorruption's heart:Some teach the bard—a darling care—The tuneful art.\"'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,They, sightless, stand,To mend the honest patriot-lore,And grace the hand.\"And when the bard, or hoary sage,Charm or instruct the future age,They bind the wild poetric rageIn energy,Or point the inconclusive pageFull on the eye.\"Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young;Hence, Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sungHis 'Minstrel lays';Or tore, with noble ardour stung,The sceptic's bays.\"To lower orders are assign'dThe humbler ranks of human-kind,The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind,The artisan;All choose, as various they're inclin'd,The various man.\"When yellow waves the heavy grain,The threat'ning storm some strongly rein;Some teach to meliorate the plainWith tillage-skill;And some instruct the shepherd-train,Blythe o'er the hill.\"Some hint the lover's harmless wile;Some grace the maiden's artless smile;Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toilFor humble gains,And make his cottage-scenes beguileHis cares and pains.\"Some, bounded to a district-spaceExplore at large man's infant race,To mark the embryotic traceOf rustic bard;And careful note each opening grace,A guide and guard.\"Of these am I—Coila my name:And this district as mine I claim,Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,Held ruling power:I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame,Thy natal hour.\"With future hope I oft would gazeFond, on thy little early ways,Thy rudely, caroll'd, chiming phrase,In uncouth rhymes;Fir'd at the simple, artless laysOf other times.\"I saw thee seek the sounding shore,Delighted with the dashing roar;Or when the North his fleecy storeDrove thro' the sky,I saw grim Nature's visage hoarStruck thy young eye.\"Or when the deep green-mantled earthWarm cherish'd ev'ry floweret's birth,And joy and music pouring forthIn ev'ry grove;I saw thee eye the general mirthWith boundless love.\"When ripen'd fields and azure skiesCall'd forth the reapers' rustling noise,I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys,And lonely stalk,To vent thy bosom's swelling rise,In pensive walk.\"When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,Those accents grateful to thy tongue,Th' adorèd Name,I taught thee how to pour in song,To soothe thy flame.\"I saw thy pulse's maddening play,Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way,Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,By passion driven;But yet the light that led astrayWas light from Heaven.\"I taught thy manners-painting strains,The loves, the ways of simple swains,Till now, o'er all my wide domainsThy fame extends;And some, the pride of Coila's plains,Become thy friends.\"Thou canst not learn, nor I can show,To paint with Thomson's landscape glow;Or wake the bosom-melting throe,With Shenstone's art;Or pour, with Gray, the moving flowWarm on the heart.\"Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose,T e lowly daisy sweetly blows;Tho' large the forest's monarch throwsHis army shade,Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,Adown the glade.\"Then never murmur nor repine;Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;And trust me, not Potosi's mine,Nor king's regard,Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,A rustic bard.\"To give my counsels all in one,Thy tuneful flame still careful fan:Preserve the dignity of Man,With soul erect;And trust the Universal PlanWill all protect."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19034"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19034,
        ""poem.id"": 19034,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Tippling Ballad—when Princes And Prelates, Etc."",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19035"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19035,
        ""poem.id"": 19035,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Farewell To Eliza"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19036"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19036,
        ""poem.id"": 19036,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Winter Of Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19038"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19038,
        ""poem.id"": 19038,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19039"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19039,
        ""poem.id"": 19039,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Murder Hate"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19040"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19040,
        ""poem.id"": 19040,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ballad On The American War"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHEN Guilford good our pilot stoodAn' did our hellim thraw, man,Ae night, at tea, began a plea,Within America, man:Then up they gat the maskin-pat,And in the sea did jaw, man;An' did nae less, in full congress,Than quite refuse our law, man.Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,I wat he was na slaw, man;Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,And Carleton did ca', man:But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,Montgomery-like did fa', man,Wi' sword in hand, before his band,Amang his en'mies a', man.Poor Tammy Gage within a cageWas kept at Boston-ha', man;Till Willie Howe took o'er the knoweFor Philadelphia, man;Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sinGuid Christian bluid to draw, man;But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,Sir-Loin he hacked sma', man.Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,Till Fraser brave did fa', man;Then lost his way, ae misty day,In Saratoga shaw, man.Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,An' did the Buckskins claw, man;But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,He hung it to the wa', man.Then Montague, an' Guilford too,Began to fear, a fa', man;And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,The German chief to thraw, man:For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,Nae mercy had at a', man;An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.Then Rockingham took up the game,Till death did on him ca', man;When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,Conform to gospel law, man:Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,They did his measures thraw, man;For North an' Fox united stocks,An' bore him to the wa', man.Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,He swept the stakes awa', man,Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,Led him a sair faux pas, man:The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,On Chatham's boy did ca', man;An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew,\"Up, Willie, waur them a', man!\"Behind the throne then Granville's gone,A secret word or twa, man;While slee Dundas arous'd the classBe-north the Roman wa', man:An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,(Inspired bardies saw, man),Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, \"Willie, rise!Would I hae fear'd them a', man?\"But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man;Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claiseBehind him in a raw, man:An' Caledon threw by the drone,An' did her whittle draw, man;An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,To mak it guid in law, man."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19041"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19041,
        ""poem.id"": 19041,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epigram On A Suicide"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19042"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19042,
        ""poem.id"": 19042,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sonnet On The Author's Birthday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19043"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19043,
        ""poem.id"": 19043,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—farewell To The Highlands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19044"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19044,
        ""poem.id"": 19044,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:10:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""357. A Grace Before Dinner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19045"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19045,
        ""poem.id"": 19045,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rights Of Women—spoken By Miss Fontenelle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings;While quacks of State must each produce his plan,And even children lisp the Rights of Man;Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,The Rights of Woman merit some attention.First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connection,One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.—The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate,Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form,Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.Our second Right—but needless here is caution,To keep that right inviolate's the fashion;Each man of sense has it so full before him,He'd die before he'd wrong it—'tis decorum.—There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways,Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,Nay even thus invade a Lady's quiet.Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled;Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest;Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,Most humbly own—'tis dear, dear admiration!In that blest sphere alone we live and move;There taste that life of life—immortal love.Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs;'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares,When awful Beauty joins with all her charms—Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,With bloody armaments and revolutions;Let Majesty your first attention summon,Ah! ça ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19046"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19046,
        ""poem.id"": 19046,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On William Muir"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19047"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19047,
        ""poem.id"": 19047,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Soldier's Return: A Ballad"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/25/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,And gentle peace returning,Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,And mony a widow mourning;I left the lines and tented field,Where lang I'd been a lodger,My humble knapsack a' my wealth,A poor and honest sodger.A leal, light heart was in my breast,My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;And for fair Scotia hame again,I cheery on did wander:I thought upon the banks o' Coil,I thought upon my Nancy,I thought upon the witching smileThat caught my youthful fancy.At length I reach'd the bonie glen,Where early life I sported;I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,Where Nancy aft I courted:Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,Down by her mother's dwelling!And turn'd me round to hide the floodThat in my een was swelling.Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, \"Sweet lass,Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,O! happy, happy may he be,That's dearest to thy bosom:My purse is light, I've far to gang,And fain would be thy lodger;I've serv'd my king and country lang—Take pity on a sodger.\"Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,And lovelier was than ever;Quo' she, \"A sodger ance I lo'ed,Forget him shall I never:Our humble cot, and hamely fare,Ye freely shall partake it;That gallant badge-the dear cockade,Ye're welcome for the sake o't.\"She gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose—Syne pale like only lily;She sank within my arms, and cried,\"Art thou my ain dear Willie?\"\"By him who made yon sun and sky!By whom true love's regarded,I am the man; and thus may stillTrue lovers be rewarded.\"The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,And find thee still true-hearted;Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,And mair we'se ne'er be parted.\"Quo' she, \"My grandsire left me gowd,A mailen plenish'd fairly;And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!\"For gold the merchant ploughs the main,The farmer ploughs the manor;But glory is the sodger's prize,The sodger's wealth is honor:The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,Nor count him as a stranger;Remember he's his country's stay,In day and hour of danger."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19048"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19048,
        ""poem.id"": 19048,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines To An Old Sweetheart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19049"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19049,
        ""poem.id"": 19049,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""89. The Ordination"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an' claw,An' pour your creeshie nations;An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,Of a' denominations;Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an' a'An' there tak up your stations;Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,An' pour divine libationsFor joy this day.Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell,Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder; 1But Oliphant 2 aft made her yell,An' Russell 3 sair misca'd her:This day Mackinlay 4 taks the flail,An' he's the boy will blaud her!He'll clap a shangan on her tail,An' set the bairns to daud herWi' dirt this day.Mak haste an' turn King David owre,And lilt wi' holy clangor;O' double verse come gie us four,An' skirl up the Bangor:This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,For Heresy is in her pow'r,And gloriously she'll whang herWi' pith this day.Come, let a proper text be read,An' touch it aff wi' vigour,How graceless Ham 5 leugh at his dad,Which made Canaan a nigger;Or Phineas 6 drove the murdering blade,Wi' whore-abhorring rigour;Or Zipporah, 7 the scauldin jad,Was like a bluidy tigerI' th' inn that day.There, try his mettle on the creed,An' bind him down wi' caution,That stipend is a carnal weedHe taks by for the fashion;And gie him o'er the flock, to feed,And punish each transgression;Especial, rams that cross the breed,Gie them sufficient threshin;Spare them nae day.Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,An' toss thy horns fu' canty;Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale,Because thy pasture's scanty;For lapfu's large o' gospel kailShall fill thy crib in plenty,An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale,No gi'en by way o' dainty,But ilka day.Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep,To think upon our Zion;And hing our fiddles up to sleep,Like baby-clouts a-dryin!Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep,And o'er the thairms be tryin;Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,And a' like lamb-tails flyinFu' fast this day.Lang, Patronage, with rod o' airn,Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin;As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,Has proven to its ruin: 8Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,He saw mischief was brewin;An' like a godly, elect bairn,He's waled us out a true ane,And sound, this day.Now Robertson 9 harangue nae mair,But steek your gab for ever;Or try the wicked town of Ayr,For there they'll think you clever;Or, nae reflection on your lear,Ye may commence a shaver;Or to the Netherton 10 repair,An' turn a carpet weaverAff-hand this day.Mu'trie 11 and you were just a match,We never had sic twa drones;Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,Just like a winkin baudrons,And aye he catch'd the tither wretch,To fry them in his caudrons;But now his Honour maun detach,Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,Fast, fast this day.See, see auld Orthodoxy's faesShe's swingein thro' the city!Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!I vow it's unco pretty:There, Learning, with his Greekish face,Grunts out some Latin ditty;And Common-sense is gaun, she says,To mak to Jamie BeattieHer plaint this day.But there's Morality himsel',Embracing all opinions;Hear, how he gies the tither yell,Between his twa companions!See, how she peels the skin an' fell,As ane were peelin onions!Now there, they're packed aff to hell,An' banish'd our dominions,Henceforth this day.O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!Come bouse about the porter!Morality's demure decoysShall here nae mair find quarter:Mackinlay, Russell, are the boysThat heresy can torture;They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,And cowe her measure shorterBy th' head some day.Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,And here's—for a conclusion—To ev'ry New Light 12 mother's son,From this time forth, Confusion!If mair they deave us wi' their din,Or Patronage intrusion,We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin,We'll rin them aff in fusionLike oil, some day."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19050"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19050,
        ""poem.id"": 19050,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""10/24/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19051"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19051,
        ""poem.id"": 19051,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ronalds Of The Bennals"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19052"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19052,
        ""poem.id"": 19052,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Whistle Ow'R The Lave O'T"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19053"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19053,
        ""poem.id"": 19053,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bold Princess Royal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19054"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19054,
        ""poem.id"": 19054,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sweet Tibbie Dunbar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19055"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19055,
        ""poem.id"": 19055,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hairst O' Rettie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19056"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19056,
        ""poem.id"": 19056,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Miss Jessie Lewars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19057"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19057,
        ""poem.id"": 19057,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:11:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wha Is That At My Bower-Door"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19058"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19058,
        ""poem.id"": 19058,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Eppie Macnab"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19059"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19059,
        ""poem.id"": 19059,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19060"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19060,
        ""poem.id"": 19060,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare , Maggie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19061"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19061,
        ""poem.id"": 19061,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was A' For Our Rightfu' King"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19062"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19062,
        ""poem.id"": 19062,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bonie Lesley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19063"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19063,
        ""poem.id"": 19063,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Birks Of Aberfeldy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19064"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19064,
        ""poem.id"": 19064,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ronalds Of The Bennals, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19065"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19065,
        ""poem.id"": 19065,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19066"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19066,
        ""poem.id"": 19066,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19067"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19067,
        ""poem.id"": 19067,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sketch—new Year's Day, 1790"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain;To run the twelvemonth's length again:I see, the old bald-pated fellow,With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,Adjust the unimpair'd machine,To wheel the equal, dull routine.The absent lover, minor heir,In vain assail him with their prayer;Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,Nor makes the hour one moment less,Will you (the Major's with the hounds,The happy tenants share his rounds;Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)From housewife cares a minute borrow,(That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow,)And join with me a-moralizing;This day's propitious to be wise in.First, what did yesternight deliver?\"Another year has gone for ever.\"And what is this day's strong suggestion?\"The passing moment's all we rest on!\"Rest on—for what? what do we here?Or why regard the passing year?Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,Add to our date one minute more?A few days may—a few years must—Repose us in the silent dust.Then, is it wise to damp our bliss?Yes—all such reasonings are amiss!The voice of Nature loudly cries,And many a message from the skies,That something in us never dies:That on his frail, uncertain state,Hang matters of eternal weight:That future life in worlds unknownMust take its hue from this alone;Whether as heavenly glory bright,Or dark as Misery's woeful night.Since then, my honour'd first of friends,On this poor being all depends,Let us th' important now employ,And live as those who never die.Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,Witness that filial circle round,(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,A sight pale Envy to convulse),Others now claim your chief regard;Yourself, you wait your bright reward."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19068"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19068,
        ""poem.id"": 19068,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Muckin' O' Geordie's Byre"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19069"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19069,
        ""poem.id"": 19069,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Banks O' Doon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19070"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19070,
        ""poem.id"": 19070,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19071"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19071,
        ""poem.id"": 19071,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:12:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poor Mailie's Elegy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19072"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19072,
        ""poem.id"": 19072,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wee Willie Gray"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19073"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19073,
        ""poem.id"": 19073,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Airlin's Fine Braes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19074"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19074,
        ""poem.id"": 19074,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19075"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19075,
        ""poem.id"": 19075,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""M'Pherson's Rant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19076"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19076,
        ""poem.id"": 19076,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ploughman's Life"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19077,
        ""poem.id"": 19077,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Mary In Heaven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19078"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19078,
        ""poem.id"": 19078,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Love, She's But A Lassie Yet"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19079"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19079,
        ""poem.id"": 19079,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Spouse Nancy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19080"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19080,
        ""poem.id"": 19080,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Slave’s Lament"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19081"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19081,
        ""poem.id"": 19081,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ye Jacobites By Name"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/25/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19082"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19082,
        ""poem.id"": 19082,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here's A Bottle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19083"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19083,
        ""poem.id"": 19083,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—the Winter It Is Past"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19084"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19084,
        ""poem.id"": 19084,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tarbolton Lasses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19085"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19085,
        ""poem.id"": 19085,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ploughman's Life, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19086"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19086,
        ""poem.id"": 19086,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:13:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peggy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19087"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19087,
        ""poem.id"": 19087,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Montgomerie's Peggy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19088"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19088,
        ""poem.id"": 19088,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Go Fetch To Me A Pint"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19089"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19089,
        ""poem.id"": 19089,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lass Of Cessnock Banks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19090"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19090,
        ""poem.id"": 19090,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19091"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19091,
        ""poem.id"": 19091,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ny Nannie, O"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19092"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19092,
        ""poem.id"": 19092,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tarbolton Lasses, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19093"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19093,
        ""poem.id"": 19093,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19094"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19094,
        ""poem.id"": 19094,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tibbie Dunbar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19095"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19095,
        ""poem.id"": 19095,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Battle Of Sherramuir"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19097"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19097,
        ""poem.id"": 19097,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Vision"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/15/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19098"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19098,
        ""poem.id"": 19098,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To A Young Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19099"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19099,
        ""poem.id"": 19099,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address Tothe Devil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19100"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19100,
        ""poem.id"": 19100,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Paraphrase Of The First Psalm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19101"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19101,
        ""poem.id"": 19101,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rigs O' Barley, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19103"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19103,
        ""poem.id"": 19103,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:14:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Verses To Clarinda"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19104"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19104,
        ""poem.id"": 19104,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ye Flowery Banks (Bonie Doon)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19105"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19105,
        ""poem.id"": 19105,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bonie Wee Thing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19106"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19106,
        ""poem.id"": 19106,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""From Lines To William Simson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19107"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19107,
        ""poem.id"": 19107,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tear-Drop, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19108"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19108,
        ""poem.id"": 19108,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Last Farewell To Stirling"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19109"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19109,
        ""poem.id"": 19109,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Thou Dread Power"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19110"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19110,
        ""poem.id"": 19110,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oh Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19111"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19111,
        ""poem.id"": 19111,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epistle To J. Lapraik (Excerpt)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19112"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19112,
        ""poem.id"": 19112,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Of A' The Airts"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19113"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19113,
        ""poem.id"": 19113,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Last May A Braw Wooer"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19114"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19114,
        ""poem.id"": 19114,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lass That Made The Bed To Me"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19115"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19115,
        ""poem.id"": 19115,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Nannie, O"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19116"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19116,
        ""poem.id"": 19116,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wounded Hare"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19117"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19117,
        ""poem.id"": 19117,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tragic Fragment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19118"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19118,
        ""poem.id"": 19118,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:15:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For A' That"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19119"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19119,
        ""poem.id"": 19119,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cotter's Saturday Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19120"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19120,
        ""poem.id"": 19120,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On A Bank Of Flowers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19121"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19121,
        ""poem.id"": 19121,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tam Glen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19122"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19122,
        ""poem.id"": 19122,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bonie Peggy Alison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19123"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19123,
        ""poem.id"": 19123,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gloomy Night Is Gath'Ring Fast"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19124"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19124,
        ""poem.id"": 19124,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Wood-Lark"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19125"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19125,
        ""poem.id"": 19125,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Holy Fair, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19126"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19126,
        ""poem.id"": 19126,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hark! The Mavis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19127"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19127,
        ""poem.id"": 19127,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ye Flowery Banks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19128"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19128,
        ""poem.id"": 19128,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bonnie Lesley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19129"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19129,
        ""poem.id"": 19129,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Robert Bruce's March To Bannockburn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19130"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19130,
        ""poem.id"": 19130,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch Ness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19131"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19131,
        ""poem.id"": 19131,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:16:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""It Was A' For Our Rightful King"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19132"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19132,
        ""poem.id"": 19132,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here's To Thy Health"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19133"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19133,
        ""poem.id"": 19133,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Duncan Gray"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19134"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19134,
        ""poem.id"": 19134,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19135"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19135,
        ""poem.id"": 19135,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19136"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19136,
        ""poem.id"": 19136,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19137"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19137,
        ""poem.id"": 19137,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Tear-Drop"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19138"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19138,
        ""poem.id"": 19138,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Mountain Daisy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19139,
        ""poem.id"": 19139,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lass That Made The Bed To Me, The"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19140,
        ""poem.id"": 19140,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mary Morison"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19141,
        ""poem.id"": 19141,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poem.id"": 19142,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Here's A Health To Them That's Awa"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19143,
        ""poem.id"": 19143,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ca' The Yowes To The Knowes"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19144,
        ""poem.id"": 19144,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rigs O' Barley"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19146,
        ""poem.id"": 19146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:17:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""O, Were My Love"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19147,
        ""poem.id"": 19147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bonie Wee Thing, The"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19148,
        ""poem.id"": 19148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jean"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19149,
        ""poem.id"": 19149,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie, The"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19150,
        ""poem.id"": 19150,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Birks Of Aberfeldie, The"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19151,
        ""poem.id"": 19151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaph On Holy Willie"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19152,
        ""poem.id"": 19152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Up In The Morning Early"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19153,
        ""poem.id"": 19153,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Winter: A Dirge"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19154,
        ""poem.id"": 19154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Bonnie Mary"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19155,
        ""poem.id"": 19155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Despondency -- An Ode"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19156,
        ""poem.id"": 19156,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love In The Guise Of Friendship"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19157,
        ""poem.id"": 19157,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Battle Of Sherramuir, The"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19158"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19158,
        ""poem.id"": 19158,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:18:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ye Banks And Braes O'Bonnie Doon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19159,
        ""poem.id"": 19159,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Anna, Thy Charms"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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    ""19160"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19160,
        ""poem.id"": 19160,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cotter's Saturday Night, The"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19161,
        ""poem.id"": 19161,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lament For Culloden"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19162,
        ""poem.id"": 19162,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scots Wha Hae"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19163,
        ""poem.id"": 19163,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Handsome Nell"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19164,
        ""poem.id"": 19164,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Farewell"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/4/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19165,
        ""poem.id"": 19165,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For A' That And A' That"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19166,
        ""poem.id"": 19166,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Banks O' Doon, The"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19167,
        ""poem.id"": 19167,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Highland Lassie, O"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19168,
        ""poem.id"": 19168,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19169,
        ""poem.id"": 19169,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""John Anderson My Jo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""19170"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19170,
        ""poem.id"": 19170,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Willie Wastle"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""19171"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19171,
        ""poem.id"": 19171,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Bonie Doon"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19172,
        ""poem.id"": 19172,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Scots, Wha Hae Wi' Wallace Bled"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19173,
        ""poem.id"": 19173,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:19:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Dream'D I Lay"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19174,
        ""poem.id"": 19174,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fareweel To A'Our Scottish Fame"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19175,
        ""poem.id"": 19175,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Green Grow The Rashes"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19177,
        ""poem.id"": 19177,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Holy Willie's Prayer"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19178,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Fiddler In The North"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19179,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Poets's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Louse"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Halloween"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19183,
        ""poem.id"": 19183,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song—Composed in Spring"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Kiss"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19185,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Highland Mary"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Carigieburn Wood"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19187,
        ""poem.id"": 19187,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To The Tooth-Ache"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To The Unco Guid"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19189,
        ""poem.id"": 19189,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:20:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Coming Through The Rye"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19191,
        ""poem.id"": 19191,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dedication"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19192,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ae Fond Kiss"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Afton Water"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To The Devil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""1 O thou! whatever title suit thee,-- 2 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!3 Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie,4 Clos'd under hatches, 5 Spairges about the brunstane cootie6 To scaud poor wretches!7 Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee,8 An' let poor damned bodies be;9 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,10 E'en to a deil,11 To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,12 An' hear us squeel!13 Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;14 Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;15 An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,16 Thou travels far;17 An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,18 Nor blate nor scaur.19 Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,20 For prey a' holes an' corners tryin;21 Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,22 Tirlin' the kirks;23 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,24 Unseen thou lurks.25 I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,26 In lanely glens ye like to stray;27 Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray28 Nod to the moon,29 Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way30 Wi' eldritch croon.31 When twilight did my graunie summon32 To say her pray'rs, douce honest woman!33 Aft yont the dike she's heard you bummin,34 Wi' eerie drone;35 Or, rustlin thro' the boortrees comin,36 Wi' heavy groan.37 Ae dreary, windy, winter night,38 The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,39 Wi' you mysel I gat a fright,40 Ayont the lough;41 Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight,42 Wi' waving sugh.43 The cudgel in my nieve did shake,44 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,45 When wi' an eldritch, stoor 'Quaick, quaick,'46 Amang the springs,47 Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,48 On whistling wings.49 Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags50 Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags51 They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags52 Wi' wicked speed;53 And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,54 Owre howket dead.55 Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain56 May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;57 For oh! the yellow treasure's taen58 By witchin skill;59 An' dawtet, twal-pint hawkie's gaen60 As yell's the bill.61 Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,62 On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' croose;63 When the best wark-lume i' the house,64 By cantraip wit,65 Is instant made no worth a louse,66 Just at the bit.67 When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,68 An' float the jinglin icy-boord,69 Then water-kelpies haunt the foord70 By your direction,71 An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd72 To their destruction.73 And aft your moss-traversing spunkies74 Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:75 The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys76 Delude his eyes,77 Till in some miry slough he sunk is,78 Ne'er mair to rise.79 When Masons' mystic word an grip80 In storms an' tempests raise you up,81 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,82 Or, strange to tell!83 The youngest brither ye wad whip84 Aff straught to hell!85 Lang syne, in Eden'd bonie yard,86 When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,87 An all the soul of love they shar'd,88 The raptur'd hour,89 Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,90 In shady bow'r;91 Then you, ye auld snick-drawin dog!92 Ye cam to Paradise incog,93 And play'd on man a cursed brogue,94 (Black be your fa'!)95 An gied the infant warld a shog,96 Maist ruin'd a'.97 D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,98 Wi' reeket duds an reestet gizz,99 Ye did present your smoutie phiz100 Mang better folk,101 An' sklented on the man of Uz102 Your spitefu' joke?103 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,104 An' brak him out o' house and hal',105 While scabs and blotches did him gall,106 Wi' bitter claw,107 An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,108 Was warst ava?109 But a' your doings to rehearse,110 Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,111 Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,112 Down to this time,113 Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,114 In prose or rhyme.115 An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,116 A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,117 Some luckless hour will send him linkin,118 To your black pit;119 But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,120 An' cheat you yet.121 But fare you weel, Auld Nickie-ben!122 O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!123 Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken--124 Still hae a stake:125 I'm wae to think upo' yon den,126 Ev'n for your sake!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19196"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19196,
        ""poem.id"": 19196,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tam O' Shanter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19197"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19197,
        ""poem.id"": 19197,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Bottle And Friend"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19198"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19198,
        ""poem.id"": 19198,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Bard's Epitaph"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19199"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19199,
        ""poem.id"": 19199,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Address To A Haggis"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19200"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19200,
        ""poem.id"": 19200,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Guid-Mornin' to our Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes. My bardship here, at your Levee On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day. I see ye're complimented thrang, By mony a lord an' lady; \"God save the King\" 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye: The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. For me! before a monarch's face Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your Grace, Your Kingship to bespatter; There's mony waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sovereign King, My skill may weel be doubted; But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed: Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft and clouted, And now the third part o' the string, An' less, will gang aboot it Than did ae day.^1 Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation: But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps wha in barn or byre Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister, Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester: For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearin' faster, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges; But, God-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonie barges An'boats this day. Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck Beneath your high protection; An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, And gie her for dissection! But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, wi' due respect, May fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. Hail, Majesty most Excellent! While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment, A simple poet gies ye? Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young Potentate o'Wales, I tell your highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known, To mak a noble aiver; So, ye may doucely fill the throne, For a'their clish-ma-claver: There, him^2 at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver: And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,^3 He was an unco shaver For mony a day. For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog, That bears the keys of Peter, Then swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or trowth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day! Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her- A glorious galley,^4 stem and stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she'll discern, Your hymeneal charter; Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An' large upon her quarter, Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty! But sneer na British boys awa! For kings are unco scant aye, An' German gentles are but sma', They're better just than want aye On ony day. Gad bless you a'! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautit; But ere the course o' life be through, It may be bitter sautit: An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it. But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautit Fu' clean that day."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19201"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19201,
        ""poem.id"": 19201,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Auld Lang Syne"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19202"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19202,
        ""poem.id"": 19202,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""My Heart's In The Highlands"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19203"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19203,
        ""poem.id"": 19203,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:21:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Mouse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19204"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19204,
        ""poem.id"": 19204,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Winter Night"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19205"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19205,
        ""poem.id"": 19205,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man's A Man For A' That"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19206"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19206,
        ""poem.id"": 19206,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Fond Kiss"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    },
    ""19207"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19207,
        ""poem.id"": 19207,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Red, Red Rose"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/13/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Robert Burns""
    }
}"
19,"2018-02-28 20:38:11","William Butler Yeats","{
    ""708"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 708,
        ""poem.id"": 708,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Statesman's Holiday"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""709"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 709,
        ""poem.id"": 709,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Spirit Medium"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""710"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 710,
        ""poem.id"": 710,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Spur"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""711"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 711,
        ""poem.id"": 711,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Death of Cuchulain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/13/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The harlot sang to the beggar-man. I meet them face to face, Conall, Cuchulain, Usna's boys, All that most ancient race; Maeve had three in an hour, they say. I adore those clever eyes, Those muscular bodies, but can get No grip upon their thighs. I meet those long pale faces, Hear their great horses, then Recall what centuries have passed Since they were living men. That there are still some living That do my limbs unclothe, But that the flesh my flesh is gripped I both adore and loathe. Are those things that men adore and loathe Their sole reality? What stood in the Post Office With Pearse and Connolly? What comes out of the mountain Where men first shed their blood? Who thought Cuchulain till it seemed He stood where they had stood? No body like his body Has modern woman borne, But an old man looking back in life Imagines it in scorn. A statue's there to mark the place, By Oliver Sheppard done. So ends the tale that the harlot Sang to the beggar-man."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""712"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 712,
        ""poem.id"": 712,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Songs Rewritten For The Tune's Sake"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""713"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 713,
        ""poem.id"": 713,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Those Images"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""714"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 714,
        ""poem.id"": 714,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover Speaks To The Hearers Of His Songs In Coming Days"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""715"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 715,
        ""poem.id"": 715,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Two Kings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""716"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 716,
        ""poem.id"": 716,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Peacock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""717"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 717,
        ""poem.id"": 717,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:36:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Wealthy Man Who Promised A Second Subscription To The Dublin Municipal Gallery If It Were"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""718"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 718,
        ""poem.id"": 718,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wanderings Of Oisin: Book Iii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""719"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 719,
        ""poem.id"": 719,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tom At Cruachan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""720"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 720,
        ""poem.id"": 720,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Three Monuments"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""721"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 721,
        ""poem.id"": 721,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Valleys Of The Black Pig"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""722"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 722,
        ""poem.id"": 722,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Shade"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""723"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 723,
        ""poem.id"": 723,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Songs To The Same Tune"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""724"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 724,
        ""poem.id"": 724,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitators Of His And Mine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""725"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 725,
        ""poem.id"": 725,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wanderings Of Oisin: Book Ii"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""726"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 726,
        ""poem.id"": 726,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The People"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""727"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 727,
        ""poem.id"": 727,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The New Faces"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""728"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 728,
        ""poem.id"": 728,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Poet Pleads With The Elemental Powers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""729"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 729,
        ""poem.id"": 729,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:37:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Under Saturn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""730"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 730,
        ""poem.id"": 730,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mountain Tomb"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""731"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 731,
        ""poem.id"": 731,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Travail Of Passion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""732"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 732,
        ""poem.id"": 732,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Nineteenth Century And After"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""733"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 733,
        ""poem.id"": 733,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tom O'Roughley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""734"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 734,
        ""poem.id"": 734,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wanderings Of Oisin: Book I"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""735"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 735,
        ""poem.id"": 735,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Veronica's Napkin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""736"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 736,
        ""poem.id"": 736,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Under The Round Tower"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""737"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 737,
        ""poem.id"": 737,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Statues"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 738,
        ""poem.id"": 738,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Valley Of The Black Pig"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""739"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 739,
        ""poem.id"": 739,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Results Of Thought"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""740"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 740,
        ""poem.id"": 740,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lady's Third Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 741,
        ""poem.id"": 741,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Old Age Of Queen Maeve"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 742,
        ""poem.id"": 742,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sad Shepherd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 743,
        ""poem.id"": 743,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:38:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""These Are The Clouds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 744,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Happy Townland"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 745,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Seven Sages"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 746,
        ""poem.id"": 746,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shadowy Waters: The Harp Of Aengus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 747,
        ""poem.id"": 747,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Three Beggars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19248,
        ""poem.id"": 19248,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gift Of Harun Al-Rashid"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19249,
        ""poem.id"": 19249,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Indian To His Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19250,
        ""poem.id"": 19250,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose Of Peace"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19251,
        ""poem.id"": 19251,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Madness Of King Goll"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19252,
        ""poem.id"": 19252,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Wealthy Man Who Promised A Second Subscription To The Dublin Municipal Gallery If It Were Proved The People Wanted Pictures"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19253,
        ""poem.id"": 19253,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Young Beauty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19254,
        ""poem.id"": 19254,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ragged Wood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19255"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19255,
        ""poem.id"": 19255,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Three Hermits"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19256,
        ""poem.id"": 19256,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:22:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Songs Of A Fool"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19257,
        ""poem.id"": 19257,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shadowy Waters: Introductory Lines"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19258,
        ""poem.id"": 19258,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Shadowy Waters: The Shadowy Waters"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19259,
        ""poem.id"": 19259,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Towards Break Of Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19260,
        ""poem.id"": 19260,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Realists"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19261"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19261,
        ""poem.id"": 19261,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon A Dying Lady"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19262"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19262,
        ""poem.id"": 19262,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lady's Second Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19263,
        ""poem.id"": 19263,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover Asks Forgiveness Because Of His Many Moods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19264,
        ""poem.id"": 19264,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Songs Of A Fool"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19265,
        ""poem.id"": 19265,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Dorothy Wellesley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19266,
        ""poem.id"": 19266,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Indian Upon God"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19267,
        ""poem.id"": 19267,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Be Carved On A Stone At Thoor Ballylee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19268,
        ""poem.id"": 19268,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The O'Rahilly"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19269,
        ""poem.id"": 19269,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Vacilliation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19270"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19270,
        ""poem.id"": 19270,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Players Ask For A Blessing On The Psalteries And On Themselves"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 19271,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:23:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Moods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19272,
        ""poem.id"": 19272,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Scholars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19273,
        ""poem.id"": 19273,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Upon A House Shaken By The Land Agitation"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19274,
        ""poem.id"": 19274,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Movements"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19275,
        ""poem.id"": 19275,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Leaders Of The Crowd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19276,
        ""poem.id"": 19276,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Old Mother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19277,
        ""poem.id"": 19277,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Unappeasable Host"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19278,
        ""poem.id"": 19278,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Old Stone Cross"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19279,
        ""poem.id"": 19279,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mother Of God"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19280,
        ""poem.id"": 19280,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Grey Rock"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19281,
        ""poem.id"": 19281,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hour Before Dawn"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19282,
        ""poem.id"": 19282,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tom The Lunatic"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19283,
        ""poem.id"": 19283,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Things"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19284,
        ""poem.id"": 19284,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19285,
        ""poem.id"": 19285,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pilgrim"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19286,
        ""poem.id"": 19286,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To His Heart, Bidding It Have No Fear"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19287,
        ""poem.id"": 19287,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:24:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Phases Of The Moon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19288,
        ""poem.id"": 19288,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Squirrel At Kyle-Na-No"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19289,
        ""poem.id"": 19289,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Saint And The Hunchback"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19290,
        ""poem.id"": 19290,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Marching Songs"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19291"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19291,
        ""poem.id"": 19291,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose Tree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19292,
        ""poem.id"": 19292,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Hearing That The Students Of Our New University Have Joined The Agitation Against Immoral Literature"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19293,
        ""poem.id"": 19293,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose In The Deeps Of His Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19294,
        ""poem.id"": 19294,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Songs To The One Burden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19295,
        ""poem.id"": 19295,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Helen Lived"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19296,
        ""poem.id"": 19296,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Harp Of Aengus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19297,
        ""poem.id"": 19297,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Man And The Echo"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19298,
        ""poem.id"": 19298,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Years Later"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19299"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19299,
        ""poem.id"": 19299,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Living Beauty"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19300"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19300,
        ""poem.id"": 19300,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:25:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover Pleads With His Friend For Old Friends"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19301"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19301,
        ""poem.id"": 19301,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Witch"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19302"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19302,
        ""poem.id"": 19302,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Those Dancing Days Are Gone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19303"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19303,
        ""poem.id"": 19303,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Host Of The Air"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19304"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19304,
        ""poem.id"": 19304,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Under The Moon"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19305"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19305,
        ""poem.id"": 19305,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Songs From A Play"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19306"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19306,
        ""poem.id"": 19306,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Hawk"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19307"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19307,
        ""poem.id"": 19307,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Three Bushes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19308"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19308,
        ""poem.id"": 19308,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19309"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19309,
        ""poem.id"": 19309,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wild Old Wicked Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19310"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19310,
        ""poem.id"": 19310,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To An Isle In The Water"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19311"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19311,
        ""poem.id"": 19311,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Nothing"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19312"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19312,
        ""poem.id"": 19312,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mask"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19313"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19313,
        ""poem.id"": 19313,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:26:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose Of Battle"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19314"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19314,
        ""poem.id"": 19314,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Great Day"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19315"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19315,
        ""poem.id"": 19315,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rose Of The World"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19316"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19316,
        ""poem.id"": 19316,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Happy Shepherd"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19317"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19317,
        ""poem.id"": 19317,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fool By The Roadside"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19318"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19318,
        ""poem.id"": 19318,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Birds"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19319"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19319,
        ""poem.id"": 19319,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19320"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19320,
        ""poem.id"": 19320,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shepherd And Goatheard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/16/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19321"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19321,
        ""poem.id"": 19321,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Was Lost"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19322"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19322,
        ""poem.id"": 19322,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Meditation Of The Old Fisherman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19323"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19323,
        ""poem.id"": 19323,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gyres"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19324"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19324,
        ""poem.id"": 19324,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Memory Of Alfred Pollexfen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19325"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19325,
        ""poem.id"": 19325,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19326,
        ""poem.id"": 19326,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Ireland In The Coming Times"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19327"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19327,
        ""poem.id"": 19327,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Introductory Lines (The Shadowy Waters)"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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    ""19328"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19328,
        ""poem.id"": 19328,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:27:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Paudeen"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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    ""19331"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19331,
        ""poem.id"": 19331,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:03"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dedication To A Book Of Stories"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19332,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Withering Of The Boughs"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19333,
        ""poem.id"": 19333,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dancer At Cruachan And Cro-Patrick"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19335,
        ""poem.id"": 19335,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lamentation Of The Old Pensioner"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19336,
        ""poem.id"": 19336,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Slim Adolescence That A Nymph Has Stripped,"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19337,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Heart Of The Woman"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19339,
        ""poem.id"": 19339,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On A Picture Of A Black Centaur By Edmund Dulac"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19341,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Delphic Oracle Upon Plotinus"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19342,
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Lover Mourns For The Loss Of Love"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19344,
        ""poem.id"": 19344,
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        ""poem.title"": ""He Reproves The Curlew"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19345,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:28:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""His Bargain"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Hears The Cry Of The Sedge"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Responsibilities - Introduction"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19348,
        ""poem.id"": 19348,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Shepherd And Goatherd"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19350,
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Hosting Of The Sidhe"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Owen Aherne And His Dancers"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Father O'Hart"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Colonel Martin"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Crazy Jane Reproved"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Everlasting Voices"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19358,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dedication To A Book Of Stories Selected From The Irish Novelists"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19359,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Winding Stair And Other Poems"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19361,
        ""poem.id"": 19361,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Old Tom Again"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19362,
        ""poem.id"": 19362,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Colonus' Praise"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:29:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""King And No King"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19364,
        ""poem.id"": 19364,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:30:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Form The Green Helmet And Other Poems"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Blessed"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Swift's Epitaph"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Presences"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Her Praise"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19392,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:31:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Responsibilities - Closing"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19393,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:31:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Meeting"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""News For The Delphic Oracle"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Baile And Aillinn"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""His Phoenix"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Model For The Laureate"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Church And State"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Stream And Sun At Glendalough"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:32:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""High Talk"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:32:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In The Seven Woods"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:32:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Young Girl"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:32:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Me Peacock"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Solomon To Sheba"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:33:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Maid Quiet"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Arrow"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""On A Political Prisoner"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""Cuchulain's Fight With The Sea"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Prayer On Going Into My House"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:34:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mohini Chatterjee"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:34:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Reconciliation"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Ego Dominus Tuus"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19435,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:34:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Thinks Of Those Who Have Spoken Evil Of His Beloved"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 19436,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:34:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""What Then?"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:34:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Old Memory"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her Triumph"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""His Dream"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Crazy Jane And Jack The Journeyman"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Chosen"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Magi"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 19444,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Aedh Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Lullaby"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Supernatural Songs"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Fallen Majesty"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Beggar To Beggar Cried"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Xi. From Oedipus At Colonus"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Faery Song"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cuchulain Comforted"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Consolation"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 19453,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:35:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crazy Jane On The Mountain"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19454,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cold Heaven"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 19455,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""At Galway Races"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Red Hanrahan's Song About Ireland"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Black Tower"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Stick Of Incense"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: X. His Wildness"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Wisdom"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fragments"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""To A Child Dancing In The Wind"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Anashuya And Vijaya"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Oil And Blood"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Running To Paradise"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Aedh Tells Of A Valley Full Of Lovers"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:36:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Coole Park, 1929"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:37:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Player Queen"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Municipal Gallery Revisited"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:37:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Parting"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:37:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Peace"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19474,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:37:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Vi. His Memories"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Fascination Of What's Difficult"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""From A Full Moon In March"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Spilt Milk"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Lines Written In Dejection"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Coole Park And Ballylee, 1931"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Dawn"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:38:35"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:38:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Father And Child"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:38:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Words For Music Perhaps"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Fairy Pendant"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:38:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sixteen Dead Men"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Vii. The Friends Of His Youth"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:39:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Memory"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""Men Improve With The Years"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:39:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dolls"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""September"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:39:36"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Gratitude To The Unknown Instructors"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""In Memory Of Major Robert Gregory"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""In Memory Of Eva Gore-Booth And Con Markiewicz"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Meditations In Time Of Civil War"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Coming Of Wisdom With Time"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""That The Night Come"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crazy Jane On God"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Demon And Beast"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""He Tells Of The Perfect Beauty"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Father Gilligan"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Meditation In Time Of War"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Circus Animals' Desertion"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: V. The Empty Cup"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:40:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crazy Jane Grown Old Looks At The Dancers"",
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        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Are You Content?"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fish"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lapis Lazuli"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.title"": ""All Souls' Night"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Memory Of Youth"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Young Man's Song"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Viii. Summer And Spring"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:27"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Into The Twilight"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Poet To His Beloved"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:36"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:41:43"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Who Goes With Fergus?"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Prayer For Old Age"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""O Do Not Love Too Long"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Her Dream"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Words"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad?"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love Song"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""On Woman"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:32"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Am Of Ireland"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:44"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Friends"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:53"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:42:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19552,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Nineteen Hundred And Nineteen"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 19553,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Ii. Human Dignity"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19554,
        ""poem.id"": 19554,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Iv. The Death Of The Hare"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 19555,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Long-Legged Fly"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19556,
        ""poem.id"": 19556,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mad As The Mist And Snow"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
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        ""poem.id"": 19557,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Death"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19558,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cat And The Moon"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19559,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19560,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Where My Books Go"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19561"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19561,
        ""poem.id"": 19561,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""No Second Troy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19562"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19562,
        ""poem.id"": 19562,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:43:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Politics"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19563"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19563,
        ""poem.id"": 19563,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Lover's Quarrel Among The Fairies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""A moonlight moor. Fairies leading a child.Male Fairies: Do not fear us, earthly maid!We will lead you hand in handBy the willows in the glade,By the gorse on the high land,By the pasture where the lambsShall awake with lonely bleat,Shivering closer to their damsFrom the rustling of our feet.You will with the banshee chat,And will find her good at heart,Sitting on a warm smooth matIn the green hill's inmost part.We will bring a crown of goldBending humbly every knee,Now thy great white doll to hold --Oh, so happy would we be!Ah it is so very big,And we are so very small!So we dance a fairy jigTo the fiddle's rise and fall.Yonder see the fairy girlsAll their jealousy display,Lift their chins and toss their curls,Lift their chins and turn away.See you, brother, Cranberry Fruit --He! ho! ho! the merry blade! --Hugs and pets and pats yon newt,Teasing every wilful maid.Girl Fairies: Lead they one with foolish care,Deafening us with idle sound --One whose breathing shakes the air,One whose footfall shakes the ground.Come you, Coltsfoot, Mousetail, come!Come I know where, far away,Owls there be whom age makes numb;Come and tease them till the day.Puffed like puff-balls on a tree,Scoff they at the modern earth --Ah! how large mice used to beIn their days of youthful mirth!Come, beside a sandy lake,Feed a fire with stems of grass;Roasting berries steam and shake --Talking hours swiftly pass!Long before the morning fireWake the larks upon the green.Yonder foolish ones will tireOf their tall, new-fangled queen.They will lead her home againTo the orchard-circled farm;At the house of weary menRaise the door-pin with alarm,And come kneeling on one knee,While we shake our heads and scoldThis their wanton treachery,And our slaves be as of old."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19564"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19564,
        ""poem.id"": 19564,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Ephemera"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19565"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19565,
        ""poem.id"": 19565,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Adam's Curse"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19566"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19566,
        ""poem.id"": 19566,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Before The World Was Made"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19567"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19567,
        ""poem.id"": 19567,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Wild Swans At Coole"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19568"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19568,
        ""poem.id"": 19568,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Byzantium"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19569"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19569,
        ""poem.id"": 19569,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Sorrow Of Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19570"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19570,
        ""poem.id"": 19570,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""After Long Silence"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19571"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19571,
        ""poem.id"": 19571,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Among School Children"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""I WALK through the long schoolroom questioning;A kind old nun in a white hood replies;The children learn to cipher and to sing,To study reading-books and histories,To cut and sew, be neat in everythingIn the best modern way -- the children's eyesIn momentary wonder stare uponA sixty-year-old smiling public man.I dream of a Ledaean body, bentAbove a sinking fire. a tale that sheTold of a harsh reproof, or trivial eventThat changed some childish day to tragedy --Told, and it seemed that our two natures blentInto a sphere from youthful sympathy,Or else, to alter Plato's parable,Into the yolk and white of the one shell.IIIAnd thinking of that fit of grief or rageI look upon one child or t'other thereAnd wonder if she stood so at that age --For even daughters of the swan can shareSomething of every paddler's heritage --And had that colour upon cheek or hair,And thereupon my heart is driven wild:She stands before me as a living child.Her present image floats into the mind --Did Quattrocento finger fashion itHollow of cheek as though it drank the windAnd took a mess of shadows for its meat?And I though never of Ledaean kindHad pretty plumage once -- enough of that,Better to smile on all that smile, and showThere is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.What youthful mother, a shape upon her lapHoney of generation had betrayed,And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escapeAs recollection or the drug decide,Would think her Son, did she but see that shapeWith sixty or more winters on its head,A compensation for the pang of his birth,Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?Plato thought nature but a spume that playsUpon a ghostly paradigm of things;Solider Aristotle played the tawsUpon the bottom of a king of kings;World-famous golden-thighed PythagorasFingered upon a fiddle-stick or stringsWhat a star sang and careless Muses heard:Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.VIIBoth nuns and mothers worship images,But thos the candles light are not as thoseThat animate a mother's reveries,But keep a marble or a bronze repose.And yet they too break hearts -- O presencesThat passion, piety or affection knows,And that all heavenly glory symbolise --O self-born mockers of man's enterprise;VIIILabour is blossoming or dancing whereThe body is not bruised to pleasure soul.Nor beauty born out of its own despair,Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,How can we know the dancer from the dance?"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19572"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19572,
        ""poem.id"": 19572,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Acre Of Grass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19573"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19573,
        ""poem.id"": 19573,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Down By The Salley Gardens"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19574"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19574,
        ""poem.id"": 19574,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:44:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Last Confession"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19575"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19575,
        ""poem.id"": 19575,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""IFirst LoveTHOUGH nurtured like the sailing moonIn beauty's murderous brood,She walked awhile and blushed awhileAnd on my pathway stoodUntil I thought her body boreA heart of flesh and blood.But since I laid a hand thereonAnd found a heart of stoneI have attempted many thingsAnd not a thing is done,For every hand is lunaticThat travels on the moon.She smiled and that transfigured meAnd left me but a lout,Maundering here, and maundering there,Emptier of thoughtThan the heavenly circuit of its starsWhen the moon sails out.IIHuman DignityLike the moon her kindness is,If kindness I may callWhat has no comprehension in't,But is the same for allAs though my sorrow were a sceneUpon a painted wall.So like a bit of stone I lieUnder a broken tree.I could recover if I shriekedMy heart's agonyTo passing bird, but I am dumbFrom human dignity.IIIThe Mermaid A mermaid found a swimming lad,Picked him for her own,Pressed her body to his body,Laughed; and plunging downForgot in cruel happinessThat even lovers drown.IVThe Death of the HareI have pointed out the yelling pack,The hare leap to the wood,And when I pass a complimentRejoice as lover shouldAt the drooping of an eye,At the mantling of the blood.Then' suddenly my heart is wrungBy her distracted airAnd I remember wildness lostAnd after, swept from there,Am set down standing in the woodAt the death of the hare.VThe Empty CupA crazy man that found a cup,When all but dead of thirst,Hardly dared to wet his mouthImagining, moon-accursed,That another mouthfulAnd his beating heart would burst.October last I found it tooBut found it dry as bone,And for that reason am I crazedAnd my sleep is gone.VIHis MemoriesWe should be hidden from their eyes,Being but holy showsAnd bodies broken like a thornWhereon the bleak north blows,To think of buried HectorAnd that none living knows.The women take so little stockIn what I do or sayThey'd sooner leave their cossetingTo hear a jackass bray;My arms are like the twisted thornAnd yet there beauty lay;The first of all the tribe lay thereAnd did such pleasure take --She who had brought great Hector downAnd put all Troy to wreck --That she cried into this ear,'Strike me if I shriek.'VIIThe Friends of his YouthLaughter not time destroyed my voiceAnd put that crack in it,And when the moon's pot-belliedI get a laughing fit,For that old Madge comes down the lane,A stone upon her breast,And a cloak wrapped about the stone,And she can get no restWith singing hush and hush-a-bye;She that has been wildAnd barren as a breaking waveThinks that the stone's a child.And Peter that had great affairsAnd was a pushing manShrieks, 'I am King of the Peacocks,'And perches on a stone;And then I laugh till tears run downAnd the heart thumps at my side,Remembering that her shriek was loveAnd that he shrieks from pride.VIIISummer and SpringWe sat under an old thorn-treeAnd talked away the night,Told all that had been said or doneSince first we saw the light,And when we talked of growing upKnew that we'd halved a soulAnd fell the one in t'other's armsThat we might make it whole;Then peter had a murdering look,For it seemed that he and sheHad spoken of their childish daysUnder that very tree.O what a bursting out there was,And what a blossoming,When we had all the summer-timeAnd she had all the spring!IXThe Secrets of the OldI have old women's sectets nowThat had those of the young;Madge tells me what I dared not thinkWhen my blood was strong,And what had drowned a lover onceSounds like an old song.Though Margery is stricken dumbIf thrown in Madge's way,We three make up a solitude;For none alive to-dayCan know the stories that we knowOr say the things we say:How such a man pleased women mostOf all that are gone,How such a pair loved many yearsAnd such a pair but one,Stories of the bed of strawOr the bed of down.XHis WildnessO bid me mount and sail up thereAmid the cloudy wrack,For peg and Meg and Paris' loveThat had so straight a back,Are gone away, and some that stayHave changed their silk for sack.Were I but there and none to hearI'd have a peacock cry,For that is natural to a manThat lives in memory,Being all alone I'd nurse a stoneAnd sing it lullaby.XIFrom 'Oedipus at Colonus'Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span;Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man;Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.Even from that delight memory treasures so,Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng,The bride is catried to the bridegroom's chamberthrough torchlight and tumultuous song;I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to havelooked into the eye of day;The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19576"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19576,
        ""poem.id"": 19576,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Bronze Head"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19577"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19577,
        ""poem.id"": 19577,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: Iii. The Mermaid"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19578"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19578,
        ""poem.id"": 19578,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Leda And The Swan"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19579"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19579,
        ""poem.id"": 19579,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dramatic Poem"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""The deck of an ancient ship. At the right of the stage is the mast, with a large square sail hiding a great deal of the sky and sea on that side. The tiller is at the left of the stage; it is a long oar coming through an opening in the bulwark. The deck rises in a series of steps hehind the tiller, and the stern of the ship curves overhead. When the play opens there are four persons upon the deck. Aibric stands by the tiller. Forgael sleeps upon the raised portion of the deck towards the front of the stage. Two Sailors are standing near to the mast, on which a harp is hanging.First Sailor. Has he not led us into these waste seasFor long enough?Second Sailor. Aye, long and long enough.First Sailor. We have not come upon a shore or shipThese dozen weeks.Sccond Sailor. And I had thought to makeA good round Sum upon this cruise, and turn --For I am getting on in life -- to somethingThat has less ups and downs than robbery.First Sailor. I am so tired of being bachelorI could give all my heart to that Red MollThat had but the one eye.Second Sailor. Can no bewitchmentTransform these rascal billows into womenThat I may drown myself?First Sailor. Better steer home,Whether he will or no; and better stillTo take him while he sleeps and carry himAnd drop him from the gunnel.Second Sailor. I dare not do it.Were't not that there is magic in his harp,I would be of your mind; but when he plays itStrange creatures flutter up before one's eyes,Or cry about one's ears.First Sailor. Nothing to fear.Second Sailor. Do you remember when we sank thatgalleyAt the full moon?First Sailor. He played all through the night.Second Sailor. Until the moon had set; and when I lookedWhere the dead drifted, I could see a birdLike a grey gull upon the breast of each.While I was looking they rose hurriedly,And after circling with strange cries awhileFlew westward; and many a time since thenI've heard a rustling overhead in the wind.First Sailor. I saw them on that night as well as you.But when I had eaten and drunk myself asleepMy courage came again.Second Sailor. But that's not all.The other night, while he was playing it,A beautiful young man and girl came upIn a white breaking wave; they had the lookOf those that are alive for ever and ever.First Sailor. I saw them, too, one night. Forgael wasplaying,And they were listening ther& beyond the sail.He could not see them, but I held out my handsTo grasp the woman.Second Sailor. You have dared to touch her?First Sailor. O she was but a shadow, and slipped fromme.Second Sailor. But were you not afraid?First Sailor. Why should I fear?Second Sailor. 'Twas Aengus and Edain, the wanderinglovers,To whom all lovers pray.First Sailor. But what of that?A shadow does not carry sword or spear.Second Sailor. My mother told me that there is not oneOf the Ever-living half so dangerousAs that wild Aengus. Long before her dayHe carried Edain off from a king's house,And hid her among fruits of jewel-stoneAnd in a tower of glass, and from that dayHas hated every man that's not in love,And has been dangerous to him.First Sailor. I have heardHe does not hate seafarers as he hatesPeaceable men that shut the wind away,And keep to the one weary marriage-bed.Second Sailor. I think that he has Forgael in his net,And drags him through the sea,First Sailor Well, net or none,I'd drown him while we have the chance to do it.Second Sailor. It's certain I'd sleep easier o' nightsIf he were dead; but who will be our captain,Judge of the stars, and find a course for us?First Sailor. I've thought of that. We must have Aibricwith us,For he can judge the stars as well as Forgael.[Going towards Aibric.]Become our captain, Aibric. I am resolvedTo make an end of Forgael while he sleeps.There's not a man but will be glad of itWhen it is over, nor one to grumble at us.Aibric. You have taken pay and made your bargain for it.First Sailor. What good is there in this hard way ofliving,Unless we drain more flagons in a yearAnd kiss more lips than lasting peaceable menIn their long lives? Will you be of our troopAnd take the captain's share of everythingAnd bring us into populous seas again?Aibric. Be of your troop! Aibric be one of youAnd Forgael in the other scale! kill Forgael,And he my master from my childhood up!If you will draw that sword out of its scabbardI'll give my answer.First Sailor. You have awakened him.[To Second Sailor.]We'd better go, for we have lost this chance.[They go out.]Forgael. Have the birds passed us? I could hear yourvoice,But there were others.Aibric. I have seen nothing pass.Forgael. You're certain of it? I never wake from sleepBut that I am afraid they may have passed,For they're my only pilots. If I lost themStraying too far into the north or south,I'd never come upon the happinessThat has been promised me. I have not seen themThese many days; and yet there must be manyDying at every moment in the world,And flying towards their peace.Aibric. Put by these thoughts,And listen to me for a while. The sailorsAre plotting for your death.Forgael. Have I not givenMore riches than they ever hoped to find?And now they will not follow, while I seekThe only riches that have hit my fancy.Aibric. What riches can you find in this waste seaWhere no ship sails, where nothing that's aliveHas ever come but those man-headed birds,Knowing it for the world's end?Forgael. Where the world endsThe mind is made unchanging, for it findsMiracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope,The flagstone under all, the fire of fires,The roots of the world.Aibric. Shadows before nowHave driven travellers mad for their own sport.Forgael. Do you, too, doubt me? Have you joined theirplot?Aibric. No, no, do not say that. You know right wellThat I will never lift a hand against you.Forgael. Why should you be more faithful than the rest,Being as doubtful?Aibric. I have called you masterToo many years to lift a hand against you.Forgael. Maybe it is but natural to doubt me.You've never known, I'd lay a wager on it,A melancholy that a cup of wine,A lucky battle, or a woman's kissCould not amend.Aibric. I have good spirits enough.Forgael. If you will give me all your mind awhile --All, all, the very bottom of the bowl --I'll show you that I am made differently,That nothing can amend it but these waters,Where I am rid of life -- the events of the world --What do you call it? -- that old promise-breaker,The cozening fortune-teller that comes whispering,'You will have all you have wished for when you haveearnedLand for your children or money in a pot.-And when we have it we are no happier,Because of that old draught under the door,Or creaky shoes. And at the end of allHow are we better off than Seaghan the fool,That never did a hand's turn? Aibric! Aibric!We have fallen in the dreams the Ever-livingBreathe on the burnished mirror of the worldAnd then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh,And find their laughter sweeter to the tasteFor that brief sighing.Aibric. If you had loved some woman --Forgael. You say that also? You have heard the voices,For that is what they say -- all, all the shadows --Aengus and Edain, those passionate wanderers,And all the others; but it must be loveAs they have known it. Now the secret's out;For it is love that I am seeking for,But of a beautiful, unheard-of kindThat is not in the world.Aibric. And yet the worldHas beautiful women to please every man.Forgael. But he that gets their love after the fashion'Loves in brief longing and deceiving hopeAnd bodily tenderness, and finds that evenThe bed of love, that in the imaginationHad seemed to be the giver of all peace,Is no more than a wine-cup in the tasting,And as soon finished.Aibric. All that ever lovedHave loved that way -- there is no other way.Forgael. Yet never have two lovers kissed but theybelieved there was some other near at hand,And almost wept because they could not find it.Aibric. When they have twenty years; in middle lifeThey take a kiss for what a kiss is worth,And let the dream go by.Forgael. It's not a dream,But the reality that makes our passionAs a lamp shadow -- no -- no lamp, the sun.What the world's million lips are thirsting forMust be substantial somewhere.Aibric. I have heard the DruidsMutter such things as they awake from trance.It may be that the Ever-living know it --No mortal can.Forgael. Yes; if they give us help.Aibric. They are besotting you as they besotThe crazy herdsman that will tell his fellowsThat he has been all night upon the hills,Riding to hurley, or in the battle-hostWith the Ever-living.Forgael. What if he speak the truth,And for a dozen hours have been a partOf that more powerful life?Aibric, His wife knows better.Has she not seen him lying like a log,Or fumbling in a dream about the house?And if she hear him mutter of wild riders,She knows that it was but the cart-horse coughingThat set him to the fancy.Forgael. All would be wellCould we but give us wholly to the dreams,And get into their world that to the senseIs shadow, and not linger wretchedlyAmong substantial things; for it is dreamsThat lift us to the flowing, changing worldThat the heart longs for. What is love itself,Even though it be the lightest of light love,But dreams that hurry from beyond the worldTo make low laughter more than meat and drink,Though it but set us sighing? Fellow-wanderer,Could we but mix ourselves into a dream,Not in its image on the mirror!Aibric. WhileWe're in the body that's impossible.Forgael. And yet I cannot think they're leading meTo death; for they that promised to me loveAs those that can outlive the moon have known it, 'Had the world's total life gathered up, it seemed,Into their shining limbs -- I've had great teachers.Aengus and Edain ran up out of the wave --You'd never doubt that it was life they promisedHad you looked on them face to face as I did,With so red lips, and running on such feet,And having such wide-open, shining eyes.Aibric. It's certain they are leading you to death.None but the dead, or those that never lived,Can know that ecstasy. Forgael! Forgael!They have made you follow the man-headed birds,And you have told me that their journey liesTowards the country of the dead.Forgael. What matterIf I am going to my death? -- for there,Or somewhere, I shall find the love they havepromised.That much is certain. I shall find a woman.One of the Ever-living, as I think --One of the Laughing People -- and she and IShall light upon a place in the world's core,Where passion grows to be a changeless thing,Like charmed apples made of chrysoprase,Or chrysoberyl, or beryl, or chrysclite;And there, in juggleries of sight and sense,Become one movement, energy, delight,Until the overburthened moon is dead.[A number of Sailors entcr hurriedly.]First Sailor. Look there! there in the mist! a ship of spice!And we are almost on her!Second Sailor. We had not knownBut for the ambergris and sandalwood.First Sailor. NO; but opoponax and cinnamon.Forgael [taking the tiller from Aibric]. The Ever-living havekept my bargain for me,And paid you on the nail.Aibric. Take up that ropeTo make her fast while we are plundering her.First Sailor. There is a king and queen upon her deck,And where there is one woman there'll be others.Aibric. Speak lower, or they'll hear.First Sailor. They cannot hear;They are too busy with each other. Look!He has stooped down and kissed her on the lips.Second Sailor. When she finds out we have better menaboardShe may not be too sorry in the end.First Sailor. She will be like a wild cat; for these queensCare more about the kegs of silver and goldAnd the high fame that come to them in marriage,Than a strong body and a ready hand.Second Sailor. There's nobody is natural but a robber,And that is why the world totters aboutUpon its bandy legs.Aibric. Run at them now,And overpower the crew while yet asleep![The Sailors go out.]"",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19580"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19580,
        ""poem.id"": 19580,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Never Give All The Heart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19581"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19581,
        ""poem.id"": 19581,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of Wandering Aengus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19582"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19582,
        ""poem.id"": 19582,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Friend's Illness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19583"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19583,
        ""poem.id"": 19583,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:41"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Stolen Child"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19584"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19584,
        ""poem.id"": 19584,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Prayer For My Daughter"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""ONCE more the storm is howling, and half hidUnder this cradle-hood and coverlidMy child sleeps on. There is no obstacleBut Gregory's wood and one bare hillWhereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind.Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;And for an hour I have walked and prayedBecause of the great gloom that is in my mind.I have walked and prayed for this young child an hourAnd heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,And-under the arches of the bridge, and screamIn the elms above the flooded stream;Imagining in excited reverieThat the future years had come,Dancing to a frenzied drum,Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.May she be granted beauty and yet notBeauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,Being made beautiful overmuch,Consider beauty a sufficient end,Lose natural kindness and maybeThe heart-revealing intimacyThat chooses right, and never find a friend.Helen being chosen found life flat and dullAnd later had much trouble from a fool,While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,Being fatherless could have her wayYet chose a bandy-legged smith for man.It's certain that fine women eatA crazy salad with their meatWhereby the Horn of plenty is undone.In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earnedBy those that are not entirely beautiful;Yet many, that have played the foolFor beauty's very self, has charm made wisc.And many a poor man that has roved,Loved and thought himself beloved,From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.May she become a flourishing hidden treeThat all her thoughts may like the linnet be,And have no business but dispensing roundTheir magnanimities of sound,Nor but in merriment begin a chase,Nor but in merriment a quarrel.O may she live like some green laurelRooted in one dear perpetual place.My mind, because the minds that I have loved,The sort of beauty that I have approved,Prosper but little, has dried up of late,Yet knows that to be choked with hateMay well be of all evil chances chief.If there's no hatred in a mindAssault and battery of the windCan never tear the linnet from the leaf.An intellectual hatred is the worst,So let her think opinions are accursed.Have I not seen the loveliest woman bornOut of the mouth of plenty's horn,Because of her opinionated mindBarter that horn and every goodBy quiet natures understoodFor an old bellows full of angry wind?Considering that, all hatred driven hence,The soul recovers radical innocenceAnd learns at last that it is self-delighting,Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;She can, though every face should scowlAnd every windy quarter howlOr every bellows burst, be happy Still.And may her bridegroom bring her to a houseWhere all's accustomed, ceremonious;For arrogance and hatred are the waresPeddled in the thoroughfares.How but in custom and in ceremonyAre innocence and beauty born?Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,And custom for the spreading laurel tree."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19585"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19585,
        ""poem.id"": 19585,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Man Young And Old: I. First Love"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19586"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19586,
        ""poem.id"": 19586,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A First Confession"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19587"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19587,
        ""poem.id"": 19587,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:45:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19588"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19588,
        ""poem.id"": 19588,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Easter, 1916"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19589"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19589,
        ""poem.id"": 19589,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Love's Loneliness"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/13/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19590"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19590,
        ""poem.id"": 19590,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dialogue Of Self And Soul"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": ""i{My Soul} I summon to the winding ancient stair;Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,Upon the breathless starlit air,'Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;Fix every wandering thought uponThat quarter where all thought is done:Who can distinguish darkness from the souli{My Self}. The consecretes blade upon my kneesIs Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glassUnspotted by the centuries;That flowering, silken, old embroidery, tornFrom some court-lady's dress and roundThe wodden scabbard bound and woundCan, tattered, still protect, faded adorni{My Soul.} Why should the imagination of a manLong past his prime remember things that areEmblematical of love and war?Think of ancestral night that can,If but imagination scorn the earthAnd interllect is wanderingTo this and that and t'other thing,Deliver from the crime of death and birth.i{My self.} Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned itFive hundred years ago, about it lieFlowers from I know not what embroidery --Heart's purple -- and all these I setFor emblems of the day against the towerEmblematical of the night,And claim as by a soldier's rightA charter to commit the crime once more.i{My Soul.} Such fullness in that quarter overflowsAnd falls into the basin of the mindThat man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,For intellect no longer knowsi{Is} from the i{Ought,} or i{knower} from the i{Known -- }That is to say, ascends to Heaven;Only the dead can be forgiven;But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.i{My Self.} A living man is blind and drinks his drop.What matter if the ditches are impure?What matter if I live it all once more?Endure that toil of growing up;The ignominy of boyhood; the distressOf boyhood changing into man;The unfinished man and his painBrought face to face with his own clumsiness;The finished man among his enemies? --How in the name of Heaven can he escapeThat defiling and disfigured shapeThe mirror of malicious eyesCasts upon his eyes until at lastHe thinks that shape must be his shape?And what's the good of an escapeIf honour find him in the wintry blast?I am content to live it all againAnd yet again, if it be life to pitchInto the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,A blind man battering blind men;Or into that most fecund ditch of all,The folly that man doesOr must suffer, if he woosA proud woman not kindred of his soul.I am content to follow to its sourceEvery event in action or in thought;Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!When such as I cast out remorseSo great a sweetness flows into the breastWe must laugh and we must sing,We are blest by everything,Everything we look upon is blest."",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19591"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19591,
        ""poem.id"": 19591,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Cradle Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19592"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19592,
        ""poem.id"": 19592,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:20"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Deep-Sworn Vow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19593"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19593,
        ""poem.id"": 19593,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Drunken Man's Praise Of Sobriety"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19594"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19594,
        ""poem.id"": 19594,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Youth And Age"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19595"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19595,
        ""poem.id"": 19595,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""An Irish Airman Forsees His Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19596"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19596,
        ""poem.id"": 19596,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sailing To Byzantium"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/16/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19597"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19597,
        ""poem.id"": 19597,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Faery Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19598"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19598,
        ""poem.id"": 19598,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brown Penny"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19599"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19599,
        ""poem.id"": 19599,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:46:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lake Isle Of Innisfree"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19600"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19600,
        ""poem.id"": 19600,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dream Of Death"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19601"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19601,
        ""poem.id"": 19601,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Coat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19602"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19602,
        ""poem.id"": 19602,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Second Coming"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19603"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19603,
        ""poem.id"": 19603,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Drinking Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19604"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19604,
        ""poem.id"": 19604,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Crazed Girl"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19605"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19605,
        ""poem.id"": 19605,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/15/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    },
    ""19606"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19606,
        ""poem.id"": 19606,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When You Are Old"",
        ""poem.date"": ""5/17/2001"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""William Butler Yeats""
    }
}"
20,"2018-02-28 20:39:08","Rudyard Kipling","{
    ""748"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 748,
        ""poem.id"": 748,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Parting of the Column"",
        ""poem.date"": ""6/10/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""We've rode and fought and ate and drunk as rations come to hand,Together for a year and more around this stinkin' land:Now you are goin' home again, but we must see it through.We needn't tell we liked you well. Good-by - good luck to you!You ‘ad no special call to come, and so you doubled out,And learned us how to camp and cook an' steal a horse and scout.What ever game we fancied most, you joyful played it too,And rather better of the whole. Good-by - good luck to you!There isn't much we ‘aven't shared, since Kruger cut and run,The same old work, the same old scoff, the same old dust and sun;The same old chance that laid us out, or winked an' let us through;The same old Life, the same old Death. Good-by - good luck to you!Our blood ‘as truly mixed with yours - all down the Red Cross train.We've bit the same thermometer in Bloeming-typhoidtein,We've ‘ad the same old temp'rature - the same relapses too,The same old saw-backed fever-chart. Good-by - good luck to you!But ‘twasn't merely this an' that (which all the world may know),‘Twas how you talked an' looked at things which made us like you so.All independent, queer an' odd, but most amazin' new.The same old saw-backed fever-chart. Good-by - good luck to you!Think o' the stories round the fire, the tales along the trek -O' Calgary an' Wellin'ton, an' Sydney and Quebec;Of mine an' farm, an' ranch an' run, an' moose an' caribou,An' parrots peckin' lambs to death! Good-by - good luck to you!We've seen your ‘ome by world o' mouth, we've watched your rivers shine,We've ‘eard your bloomin' forests blow of eucalyp' and pine;Your young, gay countries north and south, we feel we own ‘em too,For they was made by rank an' file. Good-by - good luck to you!We'll never read the papers now without inquirin' firstFor word from all those friendly drops where you were born an' nursed.Why, Dawson, Galle, an' Montreal - Port Darwin - Timaru,They're only just across the road! Good-by - good luck to you!Good-by! - So-long! Don't lose yourselves - nor us, nor all kind friends,But tell the girls your side the drift - we're comin' - when it ends!Good-by, you bloomin' Atlasses! You've taught us somethin' new:The world's no bigger than a kraal. Good-by - good luck to you!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""749"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 749,
        ""poem.id"": 749,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Chantey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""750"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 750,
        ""poem.id"": 750,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Fisher's Boarding-House"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""751"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 751,
        ""poem.id"": 751,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Landau"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""752"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 752,
        ""poem.id"": 752,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:37"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The North Sea Patrol"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""753"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 753,
        ""poem.id"": 753,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Songs Of The Lathes"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""754"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 754,
        ""poem.id"": 754,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Ahmed Shah"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""755"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 755,
        ""poem.id"": 755,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:39:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Bolivar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""756"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 756,
        ""poem.id"": 756,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:00"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Cities"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""757"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 757,
        ""poem.id"": 757,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Coiner"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""758"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 758,
        ""poem.id"": 758,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lament Of The Border Cattle Thief"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""759"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 759,
        ""poem.id"": 759,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Epitaphs Of The War"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/26/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""1914-18\"equality of sacrifice\" A. \"I was a Have.\" B. \"I was a ‘have-not.'\" (Together). \"What hast thou given which I gave not?\" a servant We were together since the War began. He was my servant—and the better man.a son My son was killed while laughing at some jest. I would I knew What it was, and it might serve me in a time when jests are few.an only son I have slain none except my Mother. She (Blessing her slayer) died of grief for me.ex-clerk Pity not! The Army gave Freedom to a timid slave: In which Freedom did he find Strength of body, will, and mind: By which strength he came to prove Mirth, Companionship, and Love: For which Love to Death he went: In which Death he lies content.the wonder Body and Spirit I surrendered whole To harsh Instructors—and received a soul . . . If mortal man could change me through and through From all I was—what may The God not do?hindu sepoy in france This man in his own country prayed we know not to what Powers. We pray Them to reward him for his bravery in ours.the coward I could not look on Death, which being known, Men led me to him, blindfold and alone.shock My name, my speech, my self I had forgot. My wife and children came—I knew them not. I died. My Mother followed. At her call And on her bosom I remembered all.a grave near cairo Gods of the Nile, should this stout fellow here Get out—get out! He knows not shame nor fear.pelicans in the wildernessA Grave near Halfa The blown sand heaps on me, that none may learn Where I am laid for whom my children grieve . . . O wings that beat at dawning, ye return Out of the desert to your young at eve!two canadian memorialsiWe giving all gained all. Neither lament us nor praise.Only in all things recall, It is Fear, not Death that slays.iiFrom little towns in a far land we came, To save our honour and a world aflame.By little towns in a far land we sleep; And trust that world we won for you to keep!the favour Death favoured me from the first, well knowing I could not endure To wait on him day by day. He quitted my betters and came Whistling over the fields, and, when he had made all sure, \"Thy line is at end,\" he said, \"but at least I have saved its name.\"the beginner On the first hour of my first day In the front trench I fell. (Children in boxes at a play Stand up to watch it well.)r.a.f. (aged eighteen) Laughing through clouds, his milk-teeth still unshed, Cities and men he smote from overhead. His deaths delivered, he returned to play Childlike, with childish things now put away.the refined man I was of delicate mind. I stepped aside for my needs, Disdaining the common office. I was seen from afar and killed . . . How is this matter for mirth? Let each man be judged by his deeds. I have paid my price to live with myself on the terms that I willed.native water-carrier (m.e.f.) Prometheus brought down fire to men, This brought up water. The Gods are jealous—now, as then, Giving no quarter.bombed in london On land and sea I strove with anxious care To escape conscription. It was in the air!the sleepy sentinal Faithless the watch that I kept: now I have none to keep. I was slain because I slept: now I am slain I sleep. Let no man reproach me again, whatever watch is unkept— I sleep because I am slain. They slew me because I slept.batteries out of ammunition If any mourn us in the workshop, say We died because the shift kept holiday.common form If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied.a dead statesman I could not dig: I dared not rob: Therefore I lied to please the mob. Now all my lies are proved untrue And I must face the men I slew. What tale shall serve me here among Mine angry and defrauded young?the rebel If I had clamoured at Thy Gate For gift of Life on Earth, And, thrusting through the souls that wait, Flung headlong into birth— Even then, even then, for gin and snare About my pathway spread, Lord, I had mocked Thy thoughtful care Before I joined the Dead! But now? . . . I was beneath Thy Hand Ere yet the Planets came. And now—though Planets pass, I stand The witness to Thy shame!the obedient Daily, though no ears attended, Did my prayers arise. Daily, though no fire descended, Did I sacrifice. Though my darkness did not lift, Though I faced no lighter odds, Though the Gods bestowed no gift, None the less, None the less, I served the Gods!a drifter off tarentumHe from the wind-bitten North with ship and companions descended, Searching for eggs of death spawned by invisible hulls. Many he found and drew forth. Of a sudden the fishery ended In flame and a clamours breath known to the eye-pecking gulls.destroyer in collision For Fog and Fate no charm is found To lighten or amend. I, hurrying to my bride, was drowned— Cut down by my best friend.convoy escort I was a shepherd to fools Causelessly bold or afraid. They would not abide by my rules. Yet they escaped. For I stayed.unknown female corpse Headless, lacking foot and hand, Horrible I come to land. I beseech all women's sons Know I was a mother once.raped and revenged One used and butchered me: another spied Me broken—for which thing an hundred died. So it was learned among the heathen hosts How much a freeborn woman's favour costs.salonikan grave I have watched a thousand days Push out and crawl into night Slowly as tortoises. Now I, too, follow these. It is fever, and not the fight— Time, not battle,—that slays.the bridegroom Call me not false, beloved, If, from thy scarce-known breast So little time removed, In other arms I rest. For this more ancient bride, Whom coldly I embrace, Was constant at my side Before I saw thy face. Our marriage, often set— By miracle delayed— At last is consummate, And cannot be unmade. Live, then, whom Life shall cure, Almost, of Memory, And leave us to endure Its immortality.v.a.d. (mediterranean)Ah, would swift ships had never been, for then we ne'er had found, These harsh Aegean rocks between, this little virgin drowned, Whom neither spouse nor child shall mourn, but men she nursed through pain And—certain keels for whose return the heathen look in vain.actorsOn a Memorial Tablet in Holy Trinity Church,Stratford-on-AvonWe counterfeited once for your disport Men's joy and sorrow: but our day has passed.We pray you pardon all where we fell short— Seeing we were your servants to this last.journalistsOn a Panel in the Hall of the Institute of JournalistsWe have served our day."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""760"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 760,
        ""poem.id"": 760,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Press"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""761"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 761,
        ""poem.id"": 761,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The City Of Brass"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/24/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""762"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 762,
        ""poem.id"": 762,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Appeal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""763"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 763,
        ""poem.id"": 763,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Liner She's A Lady"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""764"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 764,
        ""poem.id"": 764,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Hymn of Breaking Strain"",
        ""poem.date"": ""8/26/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THE careful text-books measure(Let all who build beware!) The load, the shock, the pressureMaterial can bear. So, when the buckled girderLets down the grinding span, 'The blame of loss, or murder, Is laid upon the man. Not on the Stuff - the Man!But in our daily dealing With stone and steel, we findThe Gods have no such feelingOf justice toward mankind. To no set gauge they make us- For no laid course prepare-And presently o'ertake usWith loads we cannot bear: Too merciless to bear. The prudent text-books give it In tables at the end'The stress that shears a rivet Or makes a tie-bar bend-'What traffic wrecks macadam-What concrete should endure-but we, poor Sons of AdamHave no such literature,To warn us or make sure! We hold all Earth to plunder -All Time and Space as well-Too wonder-stale to wonderAt each new miracle;Till, in the mid-illusionOf Godhead 'neath our hand,Falls multiple confusionOn all we did or planned- The mighty works we planned. We only of Creation(0h, luckier bridge and rail) Abide the twin damnation- To fail and know we fail.Yet we - by which sole tokenWe know we once were Gods-Take shame in being brokenHowever great the odds-The burden of the Odds. Oh, veiled and secret PowerWhose paths we seek in vain,Be with us in our hourOf overthrow and pain;That we - by which sure tokenWe know Thy ways are true -In spite of being broken,Because of being brokenMay rise and build anewStand up and build anew."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""765"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 765,
        ""poem.id"": 765,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Jacket"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""766"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 766,
        ""poem.id"": 766,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Bother"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""767"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 767,
        ""poem.id"": 767,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Minepit Shaw"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""768"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 768,
        ""poem.id"": 768,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Untitled [you Mustn'T Swim Till You'Re Six Weeks Old]"",
        ""poem.date"": ""11/28/2014"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""769"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 769,
        ""poem.id"": 769,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:40:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lowestoft Boat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""770"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 770,
        ""poem.id"": 770,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Legend Of The Foreign Office"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""771"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 771,
        ""poem.id"": 771,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:07"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Sons"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""772"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 772,
        ""poem.id"": 772,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Conversion Of Aurelian Mcgoggin"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""773"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 773,
        ""poem.id"": 773,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""'Tin Fish'"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""(Sea Warfare)The ships destroy us above And ensnare us beneath.We arise, we lie down, and we move In the belly of Death.The ships have a thousand eyes To mark where we come . . .But the mirth of a seaport dies When our blow gets home."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""774"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 774,
        ""poem.id"": 774,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Thomas Atkins"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""775"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 775,
        ""poem.id"": 775,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Spies' March"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""776"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 776,
        ""poem.id"": 776,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fall Of Jock Gillespie"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""777"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 777,
        ""poem.id"": 777,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The New Knighthood"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""778"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 778,
        ""poem.id"": 778,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Legends Of Evil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""779"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 779,
        ""poem.id"": 779,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Suttee"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""780"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 780,
        ""poem.id"": 780,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Braggart"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""781"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 781,
        ""poem.id"": 781,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dying Chauffeur"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""782"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 782,
        ""poem.id"": 782,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Man Who Could Write"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""783"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 783,
        ""poem.id"": 783,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:41:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Comforters"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""784"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 784,
        ""poem.id"": 784,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:42:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Legend Of Mirth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""785"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 785,
        ""poem.id"": 785,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:42:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mare's Nest"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""786"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 786,
        ""poem.id"": 786,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:42:12"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The King And The Sea"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""787"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 787,
        ""poem.id"": 787,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-01 04:42:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dead King"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19647"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19647,
        ""poem.id"": 19647,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Conundrum Of The Workshops"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19648"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19648,
        ""poem.id"": 19648,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dawn Wind"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19649"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19649,
        ""poem.id"": 19649,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lovers' Litany"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19650"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19650,
        ""poem.id"": 19650,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Dutch In The Medway"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19651"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19651,
        ""poem.id"": 19651,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Post That Fitted"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19652"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19652,
        ""poem.id"": 19652,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Puzzler"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19653"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19653,
        ""poem.id"": 19653,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:47:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Nursing Sister"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19654"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19654,
        ""poem.id"": 19654,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Miracle Of Purun Bhagat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19655"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19655,
        ""poem.id"": 19655,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Coastwise Lights"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19656"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19656,
        ""poem.id"": 19656,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Long Trail"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19657"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19657,
        ""poem.id"": 19657,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Rhyme Of True Thomas"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19658"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19658,
        ""poem.id"": 19658,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Question"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19659"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19659,
        ""poem.id"": 19659,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Destroyers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19660"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19660,
        ""poem.id"": 19660,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Portent"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19661"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19661,
        ""poem.id"": 19661,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Wolcott Balestier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19662"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19662,
        ""poem.id"": 19662,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Department"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19663"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19663,
        ""poem.id"": 19663,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thrown Away"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19664"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19664,
        ""poem.id"": 19664,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Mine-Sweepers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19665"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19665,
        ""poem.id"": 19665,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Derelict"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19666"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19666,
        ""poem.id"": 19666,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:48:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Cure"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19667"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19667,
        ""poem.id"": 19667,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Women"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19668"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19668,
        ""poem.id"": 19668,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:11"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Exiles' Line"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19669"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19669,
        ""poem.id"": 19669,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Land"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19670"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19670,
        ""poem.id"": 19670,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Files"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19671"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19671,
        ""poem.id"": 19671,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The French Wars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19672"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19672,
        ""poem.id"": 19672,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The King's Pilgrimage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19673"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19673,
        ""poem.id"": 19673,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Other Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19674"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19674,
        ""poem.id"": 19674,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The King's Task"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19675"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19675,
        ""poem.id"": 19675,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Anvil"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19676"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19676,
        ""poem.id"": 19676,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Lap"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19677"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19677,
        ""poem.id"": 19677,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The City Of Sleep"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19678"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19678,
        ""poem.id"": 19678,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Three Friends"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19679"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19679,
        ""poem.id"": 19679,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:51"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Ode"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19680"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19680,
        ""poem.id"": 19680,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Junk And The Dhow"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19681"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19681,
        ""poem.id"": 19681,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:49:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To Motorists"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19682"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19682,
        ""poem.id"": 19682,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The King's Ankus"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19683"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19683,
        ""poem.id"": 19683,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Absent-Minded Beggar"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19684"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19684,
        ""poem.id"": 19684,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Consolations Of Memory"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19685"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19685,
        ""poem.id"": 19685,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Old Guard"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19686"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19686,
        ""poem.id"": 19686,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lesson"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19687"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19687,
        ""poem.id"": 19687,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Boh Da Thone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19688"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19688,
        ""poem.id"": 19688,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The Dead"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19689"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19689,
        ""poem.id"": 19689,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Song of the White Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/8/2016"",
        ""poem.content"": ""1899Now, this is the cup the White Men drinkWhen they go to right a wrong,And that is the cup of the old world's hate- Cruel and strained and strong.We have drunk that cup- and a bitter, bitter cup- And tossed the dregs away.But well for the world when the White Men drinkTo the dawn of the White Man's day!Now, this is the road that the White Men treadWhen they go to clean a land- Iron underfoot and levin overheadAnd the deep on either hand.We have trod that road- and a wet and windy road- Our chosen star for guide.Oh, well for the world when the White Men treadTheir highway side by side!Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold- When they build their homes afar- 'Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sonsAnd, failing freedom, War.'We have proved our faith- bear witness to our faith,Dear souls of freemen slain!Oh, well for the world when the White Men joinTo prove their faith again!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19690"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19690,
        ""poem.id"": 19690,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Plea Of The Simla Dancers"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19691"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19691,
        ""poem.id"": 19691,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Lost Legion"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19692"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19692,
        ""poem.id"": 19692,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Pro-Consuls"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19693"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19693,
        ""poem.id"": 19693,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To A Lady, Persuading Her To A Car"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19694"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19694,
        ""poem.id"": 19694,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:50:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Master-Cook"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19695"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19695,
        ""poem.id"": 19695,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Song Of The English"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19696"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19696,
        ""poem.id"": 19696,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Necessitarian"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19697"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19697,
        ""poem.id"": 19697,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To T. A."",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19698"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19698,
        ""poem.id"": 19698,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""There Was A Small Boy Of Quebec"",
        ""poem.date"": ""2/3/2015"",
        ""poem.content"": ""THERE was a small boy of Quebec, Who was buried in snow to his neck; When they said. \"Are you friz?\" He replied, \"Yes, I is— But we don't call this cold in Quebec.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19699"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19699,
        ""poem.id"": 19699,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Love Song Of Har Dyal"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19700"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19700,
        ""poem.id"": 19700,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Light That Failed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19701"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19701,
        ""poem.id"": 19701,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Galley-Slave"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19702"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19702,
        ""poem.id"": 19702,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Fabulists"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19703"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19703,
        ""poem.id"": 19703,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The 'Eathen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19704"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19704,
        ""poem.id"": 19704,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The King's Job"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19705"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19705,
        ""poem.id"": 19705,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:48"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Sussex"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19706"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19706,
        ""poem.id"": 19706,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Storm Cone"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19707"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19707,
        ""poem.id"": 19707,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:51:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Song Of The Fifth River"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19708"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19708,
        ""poem.id"": 19708,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Merchantmen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19709"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19709,
        ""poem.id"": 19709,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Widow's Party"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19710"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19710,
        ""poem.id"": 19710,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To: Thomas Atkins"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19711"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19711,
        ""poem.id"": 19711,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of The Clampherdown"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19712"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19712,
        ""poem.id"": 19712,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Declaration Of London"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19713"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19713,
        ""poem.id"": 19713,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The First Chantey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19714"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19714,
        ""poem.id"": 19714,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:26"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gipsy Trail"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19715"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19715,
        ""poem.id"": 19715,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Peace Of Dives"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19716"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19716,
        ""poem.id"": 19716,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of Jakko Hill"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19717"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19717,
        ""poem.id"": 19717,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Four Points"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19718"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19718,
        ""poem.id"": 19718,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of The Cars"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19719"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19719,
        ""poem.id"": 19719,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tod's Amendment"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19720"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19720,
        ""poem.id"": 19720,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Miracles"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19721"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19721,
        ""poem.id"": 19721,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:52:56"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gypsy-Trail"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19722"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19722,
        ""poem.id"": 19722,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To The Companions"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19723"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19723,
        ""poem.id"": 19723,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Recall"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19724"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19724,
        ""poem.id"": 19724,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prayer Of Miriam Cohen"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19725"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19725,
        ""poem.id"": 19725,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Naulahka"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19726"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19726,
        ""poem.id"": 19726,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""To James Whitcomb Riley"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19727"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19727,
        ""poem.id"": 19727,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Queen's Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19728"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19728,
        ""poem.id"": 19728,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Juggler's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19729"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19729,
        ""poem.id"": 19729,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:53:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Thorkild’s Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""19730"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19730,
        ""poem.id"": 19730,
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Last Of The Light Brigade"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19793,
        ""poem.id"": 19793,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Prayer"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19794,
        ""poem.id"": 19794,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Rout Of The White Hussars"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
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        ""poem.id"": 19795,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:36"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ladies"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19796,
        ""poem.id"": 19796,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:41"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19797,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Verdicts [jutland]"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19798,
        ""poem.id"": 19798,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gift Of The Sea"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19799,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Threshold"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 19800,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:54"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 19801,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:58:57"",
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        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19803,
        ""poem.id"": 19803,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:59:06"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19804,
        ""poem.id"": 19804,
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 19806,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 06:59:18"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.title"": ""Memories"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dirge Of The Dead Sisters"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19917,
        ""poem.id"": 19917,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Heriot's Ford"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19918,
        ""poem.id"": 19918,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Evarra And His Gods"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19919,
        ""poem.id"": 19919,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Ballad Of East And West"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19920,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Survival"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19921,
        ""poem.id"": 19921,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lispeth"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:07:57"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Contradictions"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:08"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Great-Heart"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cruisers"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19927,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Centaurs"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19928,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""With Scindia To Delhi"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19929,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Azrael's Count"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19930,
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        ""poem.title"": ""The Wage-Slaves"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19931,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Merrow Down"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19932,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""For To Admire"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19933,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Belts"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19934,
        ""poem.id"": 19934,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gallio's Song"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19935,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Red Dog"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19936,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Columns"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19937,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:08:54"",
        ""poem.title"": ""At His Execution"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19939,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:06"",
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:12"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19941,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gertrude's Prayer"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19942,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dedication"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19943,
        ""poem.id"": 19943,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:31"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19944,
        ""poem.id"": 19944,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Route Marchin'"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19945,
        ""poem.id"": 19945,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Sestina Of The Tramp-Royal"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19946,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Loot"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19947,
        ""poem.id"": 19947,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:50"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Two Kopjes"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19948,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Lukannon"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19949,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:09:59"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Quiquern"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19950,
        ""poem.id"": 19950,
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        ""poem.id"": 19951,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:09"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19952,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Covenant"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19953,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Dinah In Heaven"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19954,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rimini"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19955,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:28"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19956,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rebirth"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19957,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Helen All Alone"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19958,
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        ""poem.id"": 19959,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:10:45"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Army Headquarters"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19960,
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        ""poem.id"": 19961,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Ulster"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19962,
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        ""poem.id"": 19963,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Brookland Road"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19964,
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        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:11"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19966,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Certain Maxims Of Hafiz"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19967,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:18"",
        ""poem.title"": ""En-Dor"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19968,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How The Rhinoceros Got His Skin"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poem.id"": 19969,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:29"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Buddha At Kamakura"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19970,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gipsy Vans"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19971,
        ""poem.id"": 19971,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:38"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Pharaoh And The Sergeant"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19972,
        ""poem.id"": 19972,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:44"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Our Fathers Of Old"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19973,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Winners"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19974,
        ""poem.id"": 19974,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mcandrew's Hymn"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19975,
        ""poem.id"": 19975,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:11:57"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Veterans"",
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        ""poem.id"": 19976,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:12:02"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Truce Of The Bear"",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 19977,
        ""poem.id"": 19977,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:12:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Norman And Saxon"",
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        ""poem.content"": """",
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20041,
        ""poem.id"": 20041,
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        ""poem.id"": 20042,
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        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20043,
        ""poem.id"": 20043,
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        ""poem.id"": 20044,
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        ""poem.id"": 20045,
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        ""poem.title"": ""Tomlinson"",
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        ""poem.id"": 20051,
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        ""poem.id"": 20052,
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        ""poem.title"": ""My Lady's Law"",
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        ""poem.id"": 20060,
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        ""poem.title"": ""James I"",
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        ""poem.title"": ""A Dedication"",
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    ""20102"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20102,
        ""poem.id"": 20102,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:22"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Preface"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20103"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20103,
        ""poem.id"": 20103,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""As The Bell Clinks"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20104"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20104,
        ""poem.id"": 20104,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Rikki-Tikki-Tavi"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20105"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20105,
        ""poem.id"": 20105,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:35"",
        ""poem.title"": ""How The Whale Got His Throat"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20106"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20106,
        ""poem.id"": 20106,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Kim"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20107"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20107,
        ""poem.id"": 20107,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Bank Fraud"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20108"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20108,
        ""poem.id"": 20108,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:53"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Recessional"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20109"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20109,
        ""poem.id"": 20109,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:21:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Pict Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20110"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20110,
        ""poem.id"": 20110,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Butterflies"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20111"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20111,
        ""poem.id"": 20111,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Tommy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20112"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20112,
        ""poem.id"": 20112,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:14"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Thousandth Man"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20113"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20113,
        ""poem.id"": 20113,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Arithmetic On The Frontier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20114"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20114,
        ""poem.id"": 20114,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Seal Lullaby"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20115"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20115,
        ""poem.id"": 20115,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:25"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Jane's Marriage"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20116"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20116,
        ""poem.id"": 20116,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A School Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20117"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20117,
        ""poem.id"": 20117,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Gods Of The Copybook Headings"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20118"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20118,
        ""poem.id"": 20118,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Death-Bed"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20119"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20119,
        ""poem.id"": 20119,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:43"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Dead Statesman"",
        ""poem.date"": ""3/29/2010"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20120"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20120,
        ""poem.id"": 20120,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Vampire"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20121"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20121,
        ""poem.id"": 20121,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Counting-Out Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20122"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20122,
        ""poem.id"": 20122,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:22:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Charm"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20123"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20123,
        ""poem.id"": 20123,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:05"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Boy Scouts' Patrol Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20124"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20124,
        ""poem.id"": 20124,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Poor Honest Men"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20125"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20125,
        ""poem.id"": 20125,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:16"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The White Man's Burden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20126"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20126,
        ""poem.id"": 20126,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:21"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Birds Of Prey March"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20127"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20127,
        ""poem.id"": 20127,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:27"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Follow Me 'Ome"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20128"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20128,
        ""poem.id"": 20128,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:31"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Ballad Of Burial"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20129"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20129,
        ""poem.id"": 20129,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:34"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Power Of The Dog"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20130"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20130,
        ""poem.id"": 20130,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:40"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Lover's Journey"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20131"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20131,
        ""poem.id"": 20131,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:46"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Way Through The Woods"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20132"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20132,
        ""poem.id"": 20132,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:49"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Men That Fought At Minden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20133"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20133,
        ""poem.id"": 20133,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:23:55"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Blue Roses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20134"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20134,
        ""poem.id"": 20134,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:01"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Soldier An' Sailor Too"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20135"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20135,
        ""poem.id"": 20135,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:06"",
        ""poem.title"": ""White Horses"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20136"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20136,
        ""poem.id"": 20136,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:10"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Christmas In India"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20137"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20137,
        ""poem.id"": 20137,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:13"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Legend Of Truth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Once on a time, the ancient legends tell,Truth, rising from the bottom of her well,Looked on the world, but, hearing how it lied,Returned to her seclusion horrified.There she abode, so conscious of her worth,Not even Pilate's Question called her forth,Nor Galileo, kneeling to denyThe Laws that hold our Planet 'neath the sky.Meantime, her kindlier sister, whom men callFiction, did all her work and more than all,With so much zeal, devotion, tact, and care,That no one noticed Truth was otherwhere.Then came a War when, bombed and gassed and mined,Truth rose once more, perforce, to meet mankind,And through the dust and glare and wreck of things,Beheld a phantom on unbalanced wings,Reeling and groping, dazed, dishevelled, dumb,But semaphoring direr deeds to come.Truth hailed and bade her stand; the quavering shadeClung to her knees and babbled, \"Sister, aid!I am--I was--thy Deputy, and menBesought me for my useful tongue or penTo gloss their gentle deeds, and I complied,And they, and thy demands, were satisfied.But this--\" she pointed o'er the blistered plain,Where men as Gods and devils wrought amain--\"This is beyond me! Take thy work again.\"Tablets and pen transferred, she fled afar,And Truth assumed the record of the War...She saw, she heard, she read, she tried to tellFacts beyond precedent and parallel--Unfit to hint or breathe, much less to write,But happening every minute, day and night.She called for proof. It came. The dossiers grew.She marked them, first, \"Return. This can't be true.\"Then, underneath the cold official word:\"This is not really half of what occurred.\"She faced herself at last, the story runs,And telegraphed her sister: \"Come at once.Facts out of hand. Unable overtakeWithout your aid. Come back for Truth's own sake!Co-equal rank and powers if you agree.They need us both, but you far more than me!\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20138"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20138,
        ""poem.id"": 20138,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:17"",
        ""poem.title"": ""The Young British Soldier"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20139"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20139,
        ""poem.id"": 20139,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:23"",
        ""poem.title"": ""When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20140"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20140,
        ""poem.id"": 20140,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""I Keep Six Honest..."",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20141"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20141,
        ""poem.id"": 20141,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Error"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Your browser does not support the audio element."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20142"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20142,
        ""poem.id"": 20142,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:33"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Smuggler's Song"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20143"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20143,
        ""poem.id"": 20143,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:39"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mary, Pity Women!"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20144"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20144,
        ""poem.id"": 20144,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:42"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cupid's Arrows"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20145"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20145,
        ""poem.id"": 20145,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:47"",
        ""poem.title"": ""In Springtime"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20146"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20146,
        ""poem.id"": 20146,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:52"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mandalay"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:\"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!\" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat -- jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o'mud -- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd -- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay . . . When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing \"~Kulla-lo-lo!~\"With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheekWe useter watch the steamers an' the ~hathis~ pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay . . . But that's all shove be'ind me -- long ago an' fur away,An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:\"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.\" No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay . . . I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and -- Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay . . . Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be --By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20147"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20147,
        ""poem.id"": 20147,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:24:58"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Mother O' Mine"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20148"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20148,
        ""poem.id"": 20148,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:04"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Cleared"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""(In Memory of a Commission) Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song,The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong. Their noble names were mentioned -- O the burning black disgrace! --By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,And 'coruscating innocence' the learned Judges gave it. Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife,The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life!Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger,No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger! Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise!Go shout it to the emerald seas -- give word to Erin now,Her honourable gentlemen are cleared -- and this is how: -- They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice,But -- sure it keeps their honour white -- the learned Court believesThey never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide,They never marked a man for death -- what fault of theirs he died? --They only said 'intimidate', and talked and went away --By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they! Their sin it was that fed the fire -- small blame to them that heard --The 'bhoys' get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word --They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew. They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael.If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. 'Cleared', honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: --The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to SouthThe hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth. 'Less black than we were painted'? -- Faith, no word of black was said;The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off. Hold up those hands of innocence -- go, scare your sheep together,The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again! 'The charge is old'? -- As old as Cain -- as fresh as yesterday;Old as the Ten Commandments -- have ye talked those laws away?If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,You spoke the words that sped the shot -- the curse be on you all. 'Our friends believe'? -- Of course they do -- as sheltered women may;But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?They! -- If their own front door is shut, they'll swear the whole world's warm;What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm? The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,And shows the 'bhoys' have heard your talk -- what do they know of these? But you -- you know -- ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low.Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know! My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,While one of those 'not provens' proved me cleared as you are cleared. Cleared -- you that 'lost' the League accounts -- go, guard our honour still,Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will --One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal 'strike again';The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane. If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: --We are not ruled by murderers, but only -- by their friends."",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20149"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20149,
        ""poem.id"": 20149,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:09"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Servant When He Reigneth"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/1/2004"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20150"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20150,
        ""poem.id"": 20150,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:15"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Angutivaun Taina"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20151"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20151,
        ""poem.id"": 20151,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:19"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Fuzzy-Wuzzy"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""(Soudan Expeditionary Force) We've fought with many men acrost the seas, An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im: 'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~, An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined. We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller. Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair; But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square. 'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own, 'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,So we must certify the skill 'e's shown In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year. So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more, If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore; But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair, For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square! 'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn For a Regiment o' British Infantree! So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air -- You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20152"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20152,
        ""poem.id"": 20152,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:24"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Code Of Morals"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taughtHis wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --At e'en, the dying sunset bore her busband's homilies.He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt --So stopped to take the message down -- and this is whay they learnt --\"Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot\" twice. The General swore.\"Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?\"'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!'\"Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?\"The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still,As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran: --\"Don't dance or ride with General Bangs -- a most immoral man.\"[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wifeSome interesting details of the General's private life.The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): --\"I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!\"All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter knowBy word or act official who read off that helio.But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to MooltanThey know the worthy General as \"that most immoral man.\""",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20153"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20153,
        ""poem.id"": 20153,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:28"",
        ""poem.title"": ""Gunga Din"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": ""You may talk o' gin and beerWhen you're quartered safe out 'ere,An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;But when it comes to slaughterYou will do your work on water,An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.Now in Injia's sunny clime,Where I used to spend my timeA-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,Of all them blackfaced crewThe finest man I knewWas our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was \"Din! Din! Din! You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippery ~hitherao~! Water, get it! ~Panee lao~! [Bring water swiftly.] You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.\" The uniform 'e woreWas nothin' much before,An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,For a piece o' twisty ragAn' a goatskin water-bagWas all the field-equipment 'e could find.When the sweatin' troop-train layIn a sidin' through the day,Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,We shouted \"Harry By!\" [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for \"O brother.\"]Till our throats were bricky-dry,Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was \"Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some ~juldee~ in it [Be quick.] Or I'll ~marrow~ you this minute [Hit you.] If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!\" 'E would dot an' carry oneTill the longest day was done;An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.If we charged or broke or cut,You could bet your bloomin' nut,'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.With 'is ~mussick~ on 'is back, [Water-skin.]'E would skip with our attack,An' watch us till the bugles made \"Retire\",An' for all 'is dirty 'ide'E was white, clear white, insideWhen 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was \"Din! Din! Din!\" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front-files shout, \"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!\" I shan't forgit the nightWhen I dropped be'ind the fightWith a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.I was chokin' mad with thirst,An' the man that spied me firstWas our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.'E lifted up my 'ead,An' he plugged me where I bled,An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:It was crawlin' and it stunk,But of all the drinks I've drunk,I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was \"Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground, An' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!\" 'E carried me awayTo where a dooli lay,An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.'E put me safe inside,An' just before 'e died,\"I 'ope you liked your drink\", sez Gunga Din.So I'll meet 'im later onAt the place where 'e is gone --Where it's always double drill and no canteen;'E'll be squattin' on the coalsGivin' drink to poor damned souls,An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20154"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20154,
        ""poem.id"": 20154,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:30"",
        ""poem.title"": ""A Child's Garden"",
        ""poem.date"": ""1/3/2003"",
        ""poem.content"": ""R. L. StevensonNow there is nothing wrong with meExcept -- I think it's called T.B.And that is why I have to layOut in the garden all the day.Our garden is not very wideAnd cars go by on either side,And make an angry-hooty noiseThat rather startles little boys.But worst of all is when they takeMe out in cars that growl and shake,With charabancs so dreadful-nearI have to shut my eyes for fear.But when I'm on my back again,I watch the Croydon aeroplaneThat flies across to France, and singsLike hitting thick piano-strings.When I am strong enough to doThe things I'm truly wishful to,I'll never use a car or trainBut always have an aeroplane;And just go zooming round and round,And frighten Nursey with the sound,And see the angel-side of clouds,And spit on all those motor-crowds!"",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    },
    ""20155"": {
        ""poet_x_poem.id"": 20155,
        ""poem.id"": 20155,
        ""poem.ts"": ""2018-03-02 07:25:32"",
        ""poem.title"": ""If"",
        ""poem.date"": ""12/31/2002"",
        ""poem.content"": """",
        ""poem.author"": ""Rudyard Kipling""
    }
}"