The World's Best Poetry ...J. D. Morris, 1904 |
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Página 6
... LORD TENNYSON . LINDA TO HAFED . 66 FROM THE FIRE - WORSHIPPERS . " " How sweetly , " said the trembling maid , Of her own gentle voice afraid , So long had they in silence stood , Looking upon that moonlight flood , - " How sweetly ...
... LORD TENNYSON . LINDA TO HAFED . 66 FROM THE FIRE - WORSHIPPERS . " " How sweetly , " said the trembling maid , Of her own gentle voice afraid , So long had they in silence stood , Looking upon that moonlight flood , - " How sweetly ...
Página 10
... lord . She never told her love , But let concealment , like a worm i ' the bud , Feed on her damask cheek ; she pined in thought ; And , with a green and yellow melancholy , She sat like Patience on a monument , Smiling at grief . Was ...
... lord . She never told her love , But let concealment , like a worm i ' the bud , Feed on her damask cheek ; she pined in thought ; And , with a green and yellow melancholy , She sat like Patience on a monument , Smiling at grief . Was ...
Página 21
... lord is weary , that his brain is over wrought , - Soothe him with thy finer fancies , touch him with thy lighter thought . He will answer to the purpose , easy things to understand , - Better thou wert dead before me , though I slew ...
... lord is weary , that his brain is over wrought , - Soothe him with thy finer fancies , touch him with thy lighter thought . He will answer to the purpose , easy things to understand , - Better thou wert dead before me , though I slew ...
Página 31
... LORD TENNYSON . SONG . " A WEARY lot is thine , fair maid , A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid , And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye , a soldier's mien , A feather of the blue , A doublet of the Lincoln ...
... LORD TENNYSON . SONG . " A WEARY lot is thine , fair maid , A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid , And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye , a soldier's mien , A feather of the blue , A doublet of the Lincoln ...
Página 40
... As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows . From the German of HEINRICH HEINE . Translation of RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES , LORD HOUGHTON . CUMNOR HALL . [ SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE SUGGESTIVE 40 POEMS OF SORROW .
... As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows . From the German of HEINRICH HEINE . Translation of RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES , LORD HOUGHTON . CUMNOR HALL . [ SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE SUGGESTIVE 40 POEMS OF SORROW .
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Termos e frases comuns
angels Annabel Lee Auf wiedersehen beautiful behold beneath bird blessed BLISS CARMAN bloom breast breath bright brow calm cheek child cold Cumnor dark days go dead dear death doth dream dying earth ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING eyes face fair Farewell fear flowers forever glory gone grave gray green grief hand HARRIET BEECHER STOWE hast hath hear heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW hope kiss lady light lips live Lochaber look Lord LORD TENNYSON Lycidas Mary morning mother never nevermore night o'er old Kentucky home pain pale peace PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER rest Robin Adair rose shadow shining shore sigh silent sing sleep smile snow song sorrow soul spirit spring stars summer sweet tears tender thee There's thine THOMAS HOOD thou art thought Vere voice weary weep wild wind
Passagens mais conhecidas
Página 400 - Ay me, I fondly dream ! Had ye been there, for what could that have done ? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal Nature did lament...
Página 148 - My grandmamma has said — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago — That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-cornered hat And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer...
Página 400 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
Página 132 - 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...
Página 386 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Página 239 - Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes — Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade thro...
Página 214 - But that the dread of something after death, — The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Página 189 - OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
Página 167 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
Página 214 - The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make, With a bare bodkin?