Younger American Poets, 1830-1890Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen, Goodridge Bliss Roberts Griffith, Farran, Okeden & Welsh, 1891 - 666 стор. |
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Сторінка xxvii
... face to face with a real new poet . And no one can read his volume through without feeling that a pure , high soul has unfolded its aspirations to him . Lanier differs from the other dead poets in- cluded in this book in that he was not ...
... face to face with a real new poet . And no one can read his volume through without feeling that a pure , high soul has unfolded its aspirations to him . Lanier differs from the other dead poets in- cluded in this book in that he was not ...
Сторінка 8
... face I meet , Albeit upon no mortal shore That face , methinks , hath smiled before . Lost in a gay and festal throng , I tremble at some tender song- Set to an air whose golden bars I must have heard in other stars . In sacred aisles I ...
... face I meet , Albeit upon no mortal shore That face , methinks , hath smiled before . Lost in a gay and festal throng , I tremble at some tender song- Set to an air whose golden bars I must have heard in other stars . In sacred aisles I ...
Сторінка 12
... face is like the moon , fallen grey among the spheres , With the daylight's curse upon it , as the sun sinks low . Faint as far - off bugles blowing , soft and low the reapers sung ; Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ...
... face is like the moon , fallen grey among the spheres , With the daylight's curse upon it , as the sun sinks low . Faint as far - off bugles blowing , soft and low the reapers sung ; Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ...
Сторінка 16
... Face , Do your heart and head keep pace ? When does hoary Love expire , When do frosts put out the fire ? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow ? Care you still soft hands to press , Bonny heads to smooth and bless ...
... Face , Do your heart and head keep pace ? When does hoary Love expire , When do frosts put out the fire ? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow ? Care you still soft hands to press , Bonny heads to smooth and bless ...
Сторінка 22
... face , And sought his own . Henceforward he is free Of vassalage to that mortality Which men have given a sepulchre among The pathways of their kind , -a resting - place Where , bending one great knee , Knelt the proud mother of a ...
... face , And sought his own . Henceforward he is free Of vassalage to that mortality Which men have given a sepulchre among The pathways of their kind , -a resting - place Where , bending one great knee , Knelt the proud mother of a ...
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Younger American Poets, 1830-1890 Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen,Goodridge Bliss Roberts Повний перегляд - 1891 |
Younger American Poets, 1830-1890 Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen,Goodridge Bliss Roberts Повний перегляд - 1891 |
Younger American Poets, 1830-1890 Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen,Goodridge Bliss Roberts Повний перегляд - 1891 |
Загальні терміни та фрази
Arcady beauty birds bloom blow blue Blynken Born Boston brave breast breath bright cold dark dead dear death deep don'd doth DOUGLAS SLADEN dream earth ELLA WHEELER WILCOX eyes face fair feet fire flame flowers Furl gay beat gleam glory gold golden grey Habersham hair hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hills kind permission King kiss land laugh light lips live lonely look marsh marshes of Glynn moon morn myrrh N. P. Willis neath never Newport town night o'er passion poems given poems quoted poet rose round sail SENTINEL SONGS shadow shining shore Sidney Lanier sigh silence sing skies sleep smile soft song soul stars strong summer sweet Tarpeia tears tender thee thine things thou thought Twas voice wander watch waves Whip-poor-will whisper wild wind wings woods
Популярні уривки
Сторінка 101 - No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool: The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
Сторінка 600 - Therefore if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian ; and he that speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me.
Сторінка 132 - So: Affable live-oak, leaning low, — Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent hand, (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand On the firm-packed sand, Free By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea.
Сторінка 73 - tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages — Furl its folds though now we must.
Сторінка 135 - But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call — "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton " 1425 Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main.
Сторінка 133 - Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high ? The world lies east : how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky ! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main.
Сторінка 73 - tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.
Сторінка 77 - The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of
Сторінка 131 - And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream...
Сторінка 101 - These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept — Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say — Who knows how grandly it had rung!