New PoemsTicknor and Fields, 1867 - 208 páginas |
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Resultados 1-5 de 13
Página 4
... grass , One's breath curls in the air ; and on these pines That climb from the stream's edge , the long gray tufts , Which the goats love , are jewelled thick with dew . Here will I stay till the slow litter comes . I have my harp too ...
... grass , One's breath curls in the air ; and on these pines That climb from the stream's edge , the long gray tufts , Which the goats love , are jewelled thick with dew . Here will I stay till the slow litter comes . I have my harp too ...
Página 33
... glens is fair , And by the sea , and in the brakes . The grass is cool , the seaside air Buoyant and fresh , the mountain flowers As virginal and sweet as ours . And there , they say , two bright and aged 3 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA . 33.
... glens is fair , And by the sea , and in the brakes . The grass is cool , the seaside air Buoyant and fresh , the mountain flowers As virginal and sweet as ours . And there , they say , two bright and aged 3 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA . 33.
Página 65
... grass , Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass ? - They all are gone , and thou art gone as well . Yes , thou art gone ! and round me too the night In ever - nearing circle weaves her shade . I see her veil draw soft across the day ...
... grass , Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass ? - They all are gone , and thou art gone as well . Yes , thou art gone ! and round me too the night In ever - nearing circle weaves her shade . I see her veil draw soft across the day ...
Página 102
... grass , and flowers ! — He longed for it , pressed on ! - In vain . At the Straits failed that spirit brave . The South was parent of his pain , The South is mistress of his grave . A SOUTHERN NIGHT . THE sandy spits , the shore 102 ...
... grass , and flowers ! — He longed for it , pressed on ! - In vain . At the Straits failed that spirit brave . The South was parent of his pain , The South is mistress of his grave . A SOUTHERN NIGHT . THE sandy spits , the shore 102 ...
Página 129
... pass , What endless , active life is here ! What blowing daisies , fragrant grass ! An air - stirred forest , fresh and clear . Scarce fresher is the mountain sod Where the tired angler 9 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS •
... pass , What endless , active life is here ! What blowing daisies , fragrant grass ! An air - stirred forest , fresh and clear . Scarce fresher is the mountain sod Where the tired angler 9 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS •
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Términos y frases comunes
Agrigentum Beethoven bliss blow Brandan breath bright brow Calais CALLICLES calm Carnac Catana charm Children of men cries crown Cumnor dark dead death deep divine doth dreams earth EMPEDOCLES EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA Etna eyes feel fields flowers flute forever gaze gloom glow Gods gone grass grave gray hair harp hast hath heart heaven Heine hills human knew LAOCOÖN life's light live lonely look lyre Marsyas mind Montbovon morn mount mountain mules Muse night o'er Obermann once outworn pain Parmenides pass past PAUSANIAS Peisianax Phrygian poet repose rest rock roll round Saint scorn shade shine silent soft soul spell spirit stars stream strife sweet swell thee thine things thou art thought Thyrsis to-night trees Valais Vext voice wandering waves weary wind ye stars youth
Pasajes populares
Página 99 - THE sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Página 65 - It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. He loved each simple joy the country yields, He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep, For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
Página 100 - But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant...
Página 184 - Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. Their faith, my tears, the world deride; I come to shed them at their side.
Página 117 - PALLADIUM. Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood ; And Hector was in Ilium, far below, And fought, and saw it not — but there it stood ! It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight Round Troy — but while this stood, Troy could not falL So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.
Página 101 - TEN years ! — and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear ; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream ! — and do I linger here ? The clouds are on the Oberland, The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar...
Página 67 - And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see! See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, And blow a strain the world at last shall heed — For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee.
Página 99 - Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
Página 158 - Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye For ever doth accompany mankind, Hath look'd on no religion scornfully That men did ever find. ' Which has not taught weak wills how much they can ? Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain? Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : Thou must be born again...
Página 182 - And white uplifted faces stand, Passing the Host from hand to hand; Each takes, and then his visage wan Is buried in his cowl once more. The cells, — the suffering Son of Man Upon the wall!