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The every-day book and table-book; or, Everlasting calendar of ..., Том 1
Повний перегляд - 1837
ancient appear arms beautiful bell birds body Book boys CALENDAR called carried character church common continued court cross custom death dressed Editor elephant England Every-Day Book fair feet field fire flowers four friends give given green half hand head honour hope horse hour John kind king lady land late leaves letter light living London look lord manner March master Mean Temperature month morning NATURALISTS nature never night notice observed origin passed person piece play poor present printed received remarkable respect rest round saint says season seems seen shillings side stand sweet taken thing thou thought till tion took town trees turned whole young
Сторінка 533 - No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday; Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
Сторінка 227 - 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 907 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Сторінка 1125 - The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose ; The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare ; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; The Sunshine is a glorious birth ; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Сторінка 229 - 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 emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Сторінка 227 - Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.
Сторінка 907 - Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
Сторінка 493 - Tis Flora's page: — In every place, In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms everywhere. On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise; The Rose has but a summer reign, — The Daisy never dies.
Сторінка 571 - O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great ! Still is the toiling hand of Care ; The panting herds repose : Yet hark, how thro...
Сторінка 225 - MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, > Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.