Noctes Ambrosianae

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Сторінка 48 - Our life is two-fold : Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality. And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being...
Сторінка vi - And the swallow's song in the eaves. His arms enclosed a blooming boy, Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy To the dangers his father had passed ; And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled, As she looked on the father of her child Returned to her heart at last. He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Сторінка 48 - Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality. And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity...
Сторінка vi - His arms enclosed a blooming boy, Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy To the dangers his father had passed ; And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled As she looked on the father of her child Returned to her heart at last. — He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And the rush of waters is in his soul. Astounded the reeling deck he paces, Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces : — The whole ship's crew are there. Wailings around and overhead, Brave spirits stupefied or dead, And madness...
Сторінка 77 - Coming through the rye. Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye ; Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry...
Сторінка 48 - They take a weight from off our waking toils ; They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past...
Сторінка 334 - Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show!
Сторінка vi - The sleeper's long-drawn breath. Instead of the murmur of the sea, The sailor heard the humming tree, Alive through all its leaves, The hum of the spreading sycamore That grows before his cottage-door, And the swallow's song in the eaves.
Сторінка 125 - Where now thy might which all those kings subdued ? No martial myriads muster in thy gate ; No suppliant nations...
Сторінка iv - ... Palms, something in the style of Southey. He is an eccentric genius, and has fixed himself upon the banks of Windermere, but occasionally resides in Edinburgh, where he now is. Perhaps you have seen him; — his father was a wealthy Paisley manufacturer — his mother a sister of Robert Sym.

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