The Poetical Works of John KeatsW. Smith, 1841 - 240 Seiten |
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Seite 7
... breast , half bare , Was hung a silver bugle , and between His nervy knees there lay a boar - spear keen . A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd To common lookers - on , like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian : But ...
... breast , half bare , Was hung a silver bugle , and between His nervy knees there lay a boar - spear keen . A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd To common lookers - on , like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian : But ...
Seite 15
... lion into growling , loth retire- To lose , at once , all my toil - breeding fire , And sink thus low ! but I will ease my breast Of secret grief , here in this bowery nest . ? " This river does not see the naked sky , ENDYMION . 15.
... lion into growling , loth retire- To lose , at once , all my toil - breeding fire , And sink thus low ! but I will ease my breast Of secret grief , here in this bowery nest . ? " This river does not see the naked sky , ENDYMION . 15.
Seite 24
... breast ; - ' t was even then , Straying about , yet , coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent , hurling my lance From place to place , and following at chance , At last , by hap , through some young trees 24 ENDYMION .
... breast ; - ' t was even then , Straying about , yet , coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent , hurling my lance From place to place , and following at chance , At last , by hap , through some young trees 24 ENDYMION .
Seite 29
... breast In the fountain's pebbly margin , and she stood ' Mong lilies , like the youngest of the brood . To him her dripping hand she softly kist , And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers , saying : " Youth ...
... breast In the fountain's pebbly margin , and she stood ' Mong lilies , like the youngest of the brood . To him her dripping hand she softly kist , And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers , saying : " Youth ...
Seite 34
... breast there lives a choking flame- O let me cool it among the zephyr - boughs ! A homeward fever parches up my tongue- O let me slake it at the running springs ! Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings- O let me once more hear the linnet's ...
... breast there lives a choking flame- O let me cool it among the zephyr - boughs ! A homeward fever parches up my tongue- O let me slake it at the running springs ! Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings- O let me once more hear the linnet's ...
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adieu Apollo Arethusa Art thou Bacchus beauty behold beneath bliss blue bower breast breath bright Carian censer chidden clouds cool Corinth dark deep delight divine dost doth dream earth Elysium Enceladus Endymion eyes face faint fair fear feel flowers forest gentle Goddess golden green grief hair hand happy head heart heaven Hermes hour Hyperion immortal kiss Lamia leaves light lips lone lute Lycius lyre melodies Mermaid Tavern morning mortal mossy Muse Naiad never night nymph o'er pain pale pass'd Phorcus pinions pleasant pleasure rill ringdove rose round Saturn Satyrs Scylla seem'd shade sigh silent silver sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spake spirit stars stept stood streams sweet tears tell tender thee thine things thou art thou hast thought trees trembling Vex'd voice weep whence whispering wild wind wings wonders young youth
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Seite 201 - 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...
Seite 225 - Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He...
Seite 207 - To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease ; For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Seite 207 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Seite 181 - Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight : With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
Seite 200 - 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?
Seite 200 - 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 sod.
Seite 146 - She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide: No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
Seite 3 - Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake. Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales...
Seite 228 - The poetry of earth is ceasing never : • On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.