George Eliot's Works: The mill on the floss

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Сторінка 209 - OH may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues.
Сторінка 163 - Long years have left their writing on my brow, But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam Of those young mornings are about me now, When we two wandered toward the far-off stream With rod and line. Our basket held a store Baked for us only, and I thought with joy That I should have my share, though he had more, Because he was the elder and a boy.
Сторінка 124 - I think you never set your loss beside That mighty deficit. Is your work gone — The prouder queenly work that paid itself And yet was overpaid with men's applause ? Are you no longer chartered, privileged, But sunk to simple woman's penury, To ruthless Nature's chary average — Where is the rebel's right for you alone ? Noble rebellion lifts a common load ; But what is he who flings his own load off And leaves his fellows toiling ? Rebel's right 1 Say rather, the deserter's.
Сторінка 210 - May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.
Сторінка 163 - ... the primal passionate store, Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. Those hours were seed to all my after good ; My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and touch, Took easily as warmth a various food To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. For who in age shall roam the earth and find Reasons for loving that will strike out love With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind ? Were reasons sown as thick as stars above, 'T is love must see them, as the eye sees light : Day is but Number...
Сторінка 167 - And for my fame — when any master holds 'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine, He will be glad that Stradivari lived, Made violins, and made them of the best. The masters only know whose work is good : pay They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill I give them instruments to play upon, God choosing me to help Him.
Сторінка 168 - ... slacked I should rob God — since He is fullest good Leaving a blank instead of violins. I say, not God Himself can make man's best Without best men to help Him. I am one best Here in Cremona, using sunlight well To fashion finest maple till it serves More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 'Tis rare delight : I would not change my skill To be the Emperor with bungling hands, And lose my work, which comes as natural As self at waking.
Сторінка 160 - I CANNOT choose but think upon the time When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because the one so near the other is.
Сторінка 199 - ... The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life ! O tender strife ! The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees ; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast ! O vanished past ! The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide ; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, ' ' Once more !* O memories ! O...
Сторінка 90 - For herself, She often wonders what her life had been Without that voice for channel to her soul. She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs — Made her a Maenad — made her snatch a brand And fire some forest, that her rage might mount In crashing roaring flames through half a land, Leaving her still and patient for a while. " Poor wretch ! " she says, of any murderess — " The world was cruel, and she could not sing: I carry my revenges in my throat ; I love in singing, and am loved...

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