The Letters and Poems of John Keats, Том 3 |
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Where branched thoughts , new - grown with pleasant pain , Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : Far , far around shall those dark - cluster'd trees Fledge the wild - ridged mountains steep by steep ; And there by zephyrs ...
Where branched thoughts , new - grown with pleasant pain , Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : Far , far around shall those dark - cluster'd trees Fledge the wild - ridged mountains steep by steep ; And there by zephyrs ...
Сторінка 5
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor , Thy hair soft - lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half - reap'd furrow sound asleep , Drowsed with the fume of poppies , while thy hook Spares the ...
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor , Thy hair soft - lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half - reap'd furrow sound asleep , Drowsed with the fume of poppies , while thy hook Spares the ...
Сторінка 17
From her fire - side she could see , Sidelong , its rich antiquity , Far as the Bishop's garden - wall ; Where sycamores and elm - trees tall , Full - leaved , the forest had outstript , By no sharp north - wind ever nipt , So shelter'd ...
From her fire - side she could see , Sidelong , its rich antiquity , Far as the Bishop's garden - wall ; Where sycamores and elm - trees tall , Full - leaved , the forest had outstript , By no sharp north - wind ever nipt , So shelter'd ...
Сторінка 20
Why , this — you'll say , my Fanny ! is not true : Put your soft hand upon your snowy side , Where the heart beats : confess — ' tis nothing new — Must not a woman be A feather on the sea , Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ?
Why , this — you'll say , my Fanny ! is not true : Put your soft hand upon your snowy side , Where the heart beats : confess — ' tis nothing new — Must not a woman be A feather on the sea , Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ?
Сторінка 22
... That monstrous region , whose dull rivers pour , Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore , Unown'd of any weedy - haired gods ; Whose winds , all zephyrless , hold scourging rods , Iced in the great lakes , to afflict mankind ...
... That monstrous region , whose dull rivers pour , Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore , Unown'd of any weedy - haired gods ; Whose winds , all zephyrless , hold scourging rods , Iced in the great lakes , to afflict mankind ...
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