The Works of George Eliot: The Spanish gypsyW. Blackwood, 1879 - 382 стор. |
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Alvar Annibal Aragon ARIAS arms aught Bedmár bird BLASCO blood breast breath brow Castilian chief choose Christian command dance dark daughter dead death deed divine DON AMADOR DON SILVA dream Duke earth eyes face faith father fear FEDALMA feed gaze GEORGE ELIOT give Guadix Gypsy hand hate hear heart heaven HINDA hold holy honour horoscope HOST JUAN kiss leave light limbs live look LOPEZ lord LORENZO lute Marranos memories Moorish Moors NADAR necklace never night noble nought o'er oath Pablo pain pale pause PEPITA Plaça poor Queen Roldan round seemed SEPHARDO shadows silent sing smile song soul Spain Spaniard Spanish SPANISH GYPSY speak strong sweet swift Swift winds sword tell things thou thought trembling tribe trust tune turned Twas twixt voice wait wandering watch words ZARCA Zincali
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Сторінка 182 - The world is great : the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach : my little sister went, And I am lonely. The world is great : I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher : little Lisa went, And I am lonely. The world is great : the wind comes rushing by, I wonder where it comes from ; sea birds cry And hurt my heart : my little sister went, And I am lonely.
Сторінка 67 - O song, Down the westward river, Requiem chanting to the Day, — Day, the mighty Giver. Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds Melted rubies sending Through the river and the sky, Earth and heaven blending ; All the long-drawn earthy banks Up to cloud-land lifting : Slow between them drifts the swan, 'Twixt two heavens drifting. Wings half open, like a flow'r Inly deeper flushing, Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — Virgin proudly blushing.
Сторінка 215 - Two angels guide The paths of man, both aged and yet young, As angels are, ripening through endless years. On one he leans: some call her Memory, And some Tradition ; and her voice is sweet, With deep mysterious accords: the other, Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams A light divine and searching on the earth, Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields Yet clings with loving cheek, and shines anew, Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked,...
Сторінка 5 - The fifteenth century since the Man Divine Taught and was hated in Capernaum Is near its end — is falling as a husk Away from all the fruit its years have riped.
Сторінка 73 - Right against reasons that himself had drilled And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed Too proudly special for obedience, Too subtly pondering for mastery : Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness And perilous heightening of the sentient soul.
Сторінка 82 - What ! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips Descend through generations, and the soul That moves within our frame like God in worlds Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — Imprint no record, leave no documents, Of her great history...
Сторінка 66 - It was in the prime Of the sweet Spring-time. In the linnets throat Trembled the love-note, And the love-stirred air Thrilled the blossoms there. Little shadows danced Each a tiny elf, Happy in large light And the thinnest self.
Сторінка 251 - Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, Shining in all the barren crevices Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark, Where I may dream that hidden waters lie ; As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man, Who, gazing from his narrow shoal of sand On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue, Sees that full light is errorless despair. The insects...
Сторінка 274 - You love the roses, — so do I. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush. Why will it not ? Then all the valley would be pink and white And soft to tread on. They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once! Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, Will it rain roses ? FEDALMA. No, my prattler, no ! It never will rain roses: when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees.
Сторінка 193 - But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose To know the mind that stirs between the wings Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods With myriad murmurs of responsive sense And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know The thoughts of warriors. DON SILVA Yet they are warriors too Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo: Death is the king of this world; 'tis his park Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain Are music for his banquet; and the masque — The last grand masque for his diversion,...