famous poetry

within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
do not turn your head
it tells of good old times
i've won the race
i have cast the world
eighty years have passed, and more
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
softly now the light of day
no prey am i of poor thoughts
renew the vision of delight
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
long has the summer sunlight shone
little park that i pass through