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American appeared battle beauty bells bird blue born brave breath bright comes dark dead death deep died door dream early England English expressed eyes face fair fall father feeling field flowers friends give gone grace grave gray green hand head hear heart heaven hills hold hope human imagination Italy John land later leaves letters light lips literary lived look marching marked mother nature never night o'er once passed peace poem poet published rest river round sail seems ship side sing song soul sound spirit stand stars stood story strong sweet tears tell thee things thou thought tree turned verse voice volumes wait waters wave wild wind wrote York young
Сторінка 196 - MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on.
Сторінка 158 - But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
Сторінка 196 - As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal. Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel — Since God is marching on.
Сторінка 58 - To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Сторінка 148 - And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, . And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor: And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore...
Сторінка 162 - Her deck once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee ; — The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea...
Сторінка 58 - Yet a few days and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image.
Сторінка 59 - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
Сторінка 58 - To be a brother to the insensible rock, And, to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon.
Сторінка 164 - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.