Works ...Derby & Jackson, 1859 |
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Сторінка 40
... tell , On the other side it seems to be Of the huge , broad - breasted , òld oak tree The night is chill , the forest bare ; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak · ( This " bleak moaning " is a witch's ) There is not wind enough in the air ...
... tell , On the other side it seems to be Of the huge , broad - breasted , òld oak tree The night is chill , the forest bare ; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak · ( This " bleak moaning " is a witch's ) There is not wind enough in the air ...
Сторінка 42
... Tell what her diameter to an inch is , And prove that she's not made of green cheese . Id . Pronounce it , by all means , grinches , to make the joke more wilful . The happiest triple rhyme , perhaps , that ever was written , is in Don ...
... Tell what her diameter to an inch is , And prove that she's not made of green cheese . Id . Pronounce it , by all means , grinches , to make the joke more wilful . The happiest triple rhyme , perhaps , that ever was written , is in Don ...
Сторінка 45
... beauty , more agreeable perhaps on the whole , though less exciting . Ariosto , for instance , does not tell a story with the brevity and concen . 66 trated passion of Dante ; every sentence is not WHAT IS POETRY ? 45.
... beauty , more agreeable perhaps on the whole , though less exciting . Ariosto , for instance , does not tell a story with the brevity and concen . 66 trated passion of Dante ; every sentence is not WHAT IS POETRY ? 45.
Сторінка 101
... Tell that which may maintain him all his life The needy groom , that never finger'd groat , Would make a miracle of ... telling it , Would in his age be loth to labor so , And for a pound to sweat himself to death . Give me the merchants ...
... Tell that which may maintain him all his life The needy groom , that never finger'd groat , Would make a miracle of ... telling it , Would in his age be loth to labor so , And for a pound to sweat himself to death . Give me the merchants ...
Сторінка 111
... tell me Ari . Sir , in Argier . Pro . O , was she so ? I must , Once in a month , recount what thou hast been , Which thou forget'st . This damn'd witch , Sycorax , For mischiefs manifold , and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing ...
... tell me Ari . Sir , in Argier . Pro . O , was she so ? I must , Once in a month , recount what thou hast been , Which thou forget'st . This damn'd witch , Sycorax , For mischiefs manifold , and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing ...
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Загальні терміни та фрази
Ariel Beaumont and Fletcher beauty Ben Jonson Bessus Caliban character charm Chaucer Coleridge Corb dance Dante delight devil doth dream earth exquisite eyes Faerie Queene fair fairy fancy fear feeling flowers genius gentle give grace hand happy hast hath head hear heart heaven Hecate horse Hudibras humor imagination Kath king lady live look lord Lycidas Macbeth Mammon melancholy Milton mock-heroic Molière moon Morpheus mortal nature never night nymphs o'er Oberon passage passion Petruchio play poem poet poetical poetry pray Priam Proserpina queen quod quoth reader rhyme sense Shakspeare sing sleep soft Sompnour song soul sound speak Spenser spirit stanza sweet Sycorax Tamburlaine Tartuffe tell thee Theoph things thou art thought TITANIA truth unto verse wanton wind witch wood word writing young
Популярні уривки
Сторінка 219 - What thou art we know not: what is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not drops so bright to see, as from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...
Сторінка 189 - And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Сторінка 252 - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret...
Сторінка 252 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Сторінка 177 - Less than archangel ruined, and the excess Of glory obscured ; as when the sun, new risen, Looks through the horizontal misty air Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon, In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
Сторінка 233 - ST. AGNES' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
Сторінка 194 - Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
Сторінка 88 - Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns He would himself have been a soldier.
Сторінка 250 - Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair ; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
Сторінка 186 - Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus