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Página 54 - How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
Página 176 - THERE rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
Página 22 - The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story : The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Página 165 - There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me: — Only to live as once on earth With Love, only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he." She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, — "All this is when he comes.
Página 17 - Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong ; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd — down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Página 32 - Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces...
Página 186 - No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
Página 162 - It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.
Página 14 - And their warm tears; but all hath suffer'd change; For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange, And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.