Beautiful poetry, selected by the ed. of The Critic, Band 31855 |
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Seite 182
... sing , That Death alone is sad ; The grass will grow , the primrose show , That Death alone is sad ; Lament above thy grave , Old Leaf ; For what has Life to do with Grief ? ' Tis Death alone that's sad . What then ? We two have both ...
... sing , That Death alone is sad ; The grass will grow , the primrose show , That Death alone is sad ; Lament above thy grave , Old Leaf ; For what has Life to do with Grief ? ' Tis Death alone that's sad . What then ? We two have both ...
Seite 198
... wave- All other sounds are still . And strange and mournfully sound they ; Each seems a funeral cry , O'er life that long has past away , O'er ages long gone by . One winged minstrel's left to sing O'er him who lies 198 BEAUTIFUL POETRY .
... wave- All other sounds are still . And strange and mournfully sound they ; Each seems a funeral cry , O'er life that long has past away , O'er ages long gone by . One winged minstrel's left to sing O'er him who lies 198 BEAUTIFUL POETRY .
Seite 199
Beautiful poetry. One winged minstrel's left to sing O'er him who lies beneath- The humming bee , that seeks in spring Its honey from the heath , It is the sole familiar sound That ever rises there ; For silent is the haunted ground ...
Beautiful poetry. One winged minstrel's left to sing O'er him who lies beneath- The humming bee , that seeks in spring Its honey from the heath , It is the sole familiar sound That ever rises there ; For silent is the haunted ground ...
Seite 208
... sing over his grave . This has been adopted as a text by an anonymous American writer , and improved in the following beautiful lines . In some wild forest shade , Under some spreading oak , or waving pine , Or old elm , festoon'd with ...
... sing over his grave . This has been adopted as a text by an anonymous American writer , and improved in the following beautiful lines . In some wild forest shade , Under some spreading oak , or waving pine , Or old elm , festoon'd with ...
Seite 214
Beautiful poetry. He should fetch from the eastern island The songs that the Peris sing , And when evening is clear and silent Spells to thy ear would bring , And with his mysterious strain Would entrance thy weary brain— Love's own ...
Beautiful poetry. He should fetch from the eastern island The songs that the Peris sing , And when evening is clear and silent Spells to thy ear would bring , And with his mysterious strain Would entrance thy weary brain— Love's own ...
Häufige Begriffe und Wortgruppen
Advertisements BARRY CORNWALL BEAUTIFUL POETRY beneath bird blue breast breath bright brow cheek Choice Passages Clerical Journal cloth cloud cold Consisting of Choice creeping everywhere dark death deep doth dream earth EBENEZER ELLIOTT Edited by H. G. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ESSEX STREET eyes fair flowers Fontenoy gaze golden grave green H. G. ADAMS hath hear heard heart heaven hills Holy Orders hour JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL JOHN CROCKFORD Lady leaves light London Literary Journal lonely look moon morning N. P. WILLIS never night numbers o'er pale Philaster poem poet price 3d rose round S. T. COLERIDGE SACRED SACRED POETS shade shadow sigh silent sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit spring stars Strand stream sweet tears thee thine things thou art thought trees United Kingdom University Chronicle voice waves weary wild WILLIAM ALLINGHAM wind
Beliebte Passagen
Seite 200 - I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
Seite 198 - She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
Seite 189 - With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ; How silently ; and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries...
Seite 215 - Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; But you never may behold Little John or Robin bold ; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair Hostess Merriment Down beside the pasture Trent, For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
Seite 208 - THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the" landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore, Though evening with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree...
Seite 194 - Morea's hills the setting sun; not as in northern climes obscurely bright, but one unclouded blaze of living light : o'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows. On old jEgina's rock and Idra's isle the god of gladness sheds his parting smile; o'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, though there his altars are no more divine.
Seite 198 - None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more But even then I "heard her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.
Seite 221 - Call for the robin redbreast, and the -wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Seite 200 - I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river...
Seite 194 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!