Selections from the Poetical Works of Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton

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Сторінка 116 - He came not, — no, he came not, — The night came on alone, — The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne ; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.
Сторінка 50 - A man's best things are nearest him, Lie close about his feet, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire, — Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire.
Сторінка 106 - A FAIR little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see : Then smoothed her work, and folded it right, And said, " Dear Work ! Good Night, Good Night...
Сторінка 47 - If you have no power of giving ; — An arm of aid to the weak ; — A friendly hand to the friendless ; — Kind words so short to speak, But whose echo is endless — The world is wide ; these things are small ; They may be nothing, but they are all.
Сторінка 92 - mid this long tumultuous scene, The image on our mind Of these dear women rests serene In happy bounds confined. Within one undisturbed abode Their presence seems to dwell, From which continual pleasures flowed, And countless graces fell ; Not unbecoming this our age Of decorative forms, Yet simple as the hermitage Exposed to Nature's storms. Our English grandeur on the shelf Deposed its decent gloom, And every pride unloosed itself Within that modest room ; Where none were sad, and few were dull,...
Сторінка 116 - THE BROOK-SIDE. I WANDERED by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill,— I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watched the long, long, shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word, — But...
Сторінка 117 - But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watched the long, long, shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.
Сторінка 58 - BELIEVE not that your inner eye Can ever in just measure try The worth of hours as they go by ; For every man's weak self, alas ! Makes him to see them while they pass As through a dim or tinted glass...
Сторінка 108 - I never felt The agonizing sense Of seeing love from passion melt Into indifference ; The fearful shame, that day by day Burns onward, still to burn, To' have thrown your precious heart away, And met this black return.
Сторінка 47 - And a terrible heart-thrill, If you' have no power of giving ; An arm of aid to the weak, A friendly hand to the friendless, Kind words, so short to speak, But whose echo is endless : The world is wide, — these things are small, They may be nothing, but they are All.

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