PoemsGinn, 1896 - 302 стор. |
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Сторінка 7
... hours ; 30 No voice , no lute , no pipe , no incense sweet From chain - swung censer teeming ; No shrine , no grove , no oracle , no heat Of pale - mouth'd prophet dreaming . O brightest though too late for antique vows , Too , too late ...
... hours ; 30 No voice , no lute , no pipe , no incense sweet From chain - swung censer teeming ; No shrine , no grove , no oracle , no heat Of pale - mouth'd prophet dreaming . O brightest though too late for antique vows , Too , too late ...
Сторінка 9
... hours by hours . 3 . Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay , where are they ? Think not of them , thou hast thy music too , While barred clouds bloom the soft - dying day , And touch the stubble - plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful ...
... hours by hours . 3 . Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay , where are they ? Think not of them , thou hast thy music too , While barred clouds bloom the soft - dying day , And touch the stubble - plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful ...
Сторінка 16
... hours are old and gray , And their minutes buried all Under the down - trodden pall Of the leaves of many years : Many times have winter's shears , Frozen North , and chilling East , Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's ...
... hours are old and gray , And their minutes buried all Under the down - trodden pall Of the leaves of many years : Many times have winter's shears , Frozen North , and chilling East , Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's ...
Сторінка 43
... hour . What though I am not wealthy in the dower . Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughts Of man though no great minist'ring reason sorts Out ...
... hour . What though I am not wealthy in the dower . Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughts Of man though no great minist'ring reason sorts Out ...
Сторінка 50
... hour ; The blissful cloud of summer - indolence Benumb'd my eyes ; my pulse grew less and less ; Pain had no sting , and pleasure's wreath no flower : O , why did ye not melt , and leave me sense Unhaunted quite of all but nothingness ...
... hour ; The blissful cloud of summer - indolence Benumb'd my eyes ; my pulse grew less and less ; Pain had no sting , and pleasure's wreath no flower : O , why did ye not melt , and leave me sense Unhaunted quite of all but nothingness ...
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९९ Arethusa Art thou Bacchus beauty behold beneath bliss bower breath bright Carian clouds cold Corinth dark death deep delight dost doth dream ears earth Enceladus Endymion eyes Faerie Queene faint fair fear feel flowers forest gentle gloom goddess golden green grief hair hand happy heart heaven Hermes Hyperion immortal John Keats Keats Keats's kiss Lamia leaves Leigh Hunt light lips lone lute Lycius lyre melody moon morning mortal Naiad never night nymph o'er Ode to Psyche once pain pale pass'd passion Peona poem poet poetry Porphyro rill rose round Saturn Scylla seem'd shade sigh silent silver sing sleep smile soft song sonnet sorrow soul spake spirit stars stept stood sweet tears tell tender thee thine things thou art thou hast thought trees trembling vex'd voice weep whisper wild wind wings wonders words young youth
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Сторінка 7 - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love!
Сторінка 267 - Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seem'da splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Сторінка 10 - Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers...
Сторінка 7 - Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
Сторінка 7 - O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Сторінка 10 - And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in ! FANCY.
Сторінка 4 - Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee ! tender is the night. And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays...
Сторінка 270 - The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. xxxv. "Ah, Porphyro!
Сторінка 4 - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret...
Сторінка 269 - And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.