PoemsGinn, 1896 - 302 стор. |
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Сторінка 3
... sing , and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod . 50 55 1 60 7 . Thou wast not born for death , immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by ...
... sing , and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod . 50 55 1 60 7 . Thou wast not born for death , immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by ...
Сторінка 7
... sing , by my own eyes inspired . So let me be thy choir , and make a moan Upon the midnight hours ; Thy voice , thy lute , thy pipe , thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine , thy grove , thy oracle , thy heat Of pale ...
... sing , by my own eyes inspired . So let me be thy choir , and make a moan Upon the midnight hours ; Thy voice , thy lute , thy pipe , thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine , thy grove , thy oracle , thy heat Of pale ...
Сторінка 9
... sing ; and now with treble soft The red - breast whistles from a garden - croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies . ODE ON MELANCHOLY . 20 25 30 I. No , no , go not to Lethe , neither twist Wolf's - bane , tight - rooted ...
... sing ; and now with treble soft The red - breast whistles from a garden - croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies . ODE ON MELANCHOLY . 20 25 30 I. No , no , go not to Lethe , neither twist Wolf's - bane , tight - rooted ...
Сторінка 12
... sing . Oh , sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; Every thing is spoilt by use : Where's the cheek that doth not fade , Too much gaz'd at ? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new ? Where's the eye , however blue , 70 Doth not weary ...
... sing . Oh , sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; Every thing is spoilt by use : Where's the cheek that doth not fade , Too much gaz'd at ? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new ? Where's the eye , however blue , 70 Doth not weary ...
Сторінка 14
... sing Not a senseless , tranced thing , But divine melodious truth ; Philosophic numbers smooth ; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries . Thus ye live on high , and then On the earth ye live again ; And the souls left ...
... sing Not a senseless , tranced thing , But divine melodious truth ; Philosophic numbers smooth ; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries . Thus ye live on high , and then On the earth ye live again ; And the souls left ...
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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.