Poems with rhymes of sore

He that was our Brother sorrows sore!
Man goes to Man!
To the Man-Trail where we may not follow more.

My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
The way had been so sore.

When he, who, sad and weary, longing sore
For love's sweet service sought the sisters' door

Oh Life is wounded sore
And Grief's mad waters roar.

But as for me, helas! I may no more.
The vain travail hath worried me so sore,

Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore,

His lod is very sore;
Ad if misfortude cubs to hib,
He has to toil the bore.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,

The wind might whistle, the wind might roar,
And teeth be aching and throats be sore,

A time of such quality, since or before,
In that hill's story? To one mind never,
Though it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore,

Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more,
As a worm sucking an envenomed sore?

Strong for the red rage of battle; sane for I harry them sore;
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;

It fell into Celestiall Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsell more.

Happened, first swooning-fit which puzzled sore
The early sages? Is that why she dips
Into the dark, a minute and no more,

They looked up his connections and rivals by the score –
The wife who had divorced him some twenty years before,
And several politicians he'd made feel very sore.

I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,
But God save swich a lord! I can no more.

It's wings you broke, it's heart left sore
Web-like threads tied her to you evermore

'While I sit at the door
Sick to gaze within
Mine eye weepeth sore

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.

And tingling still, and sore,
Made many a promise to refrain
From meddling evermore.