Old-world Idylls and Other VersesKegan Paul, Trench, 1883 - 245 psl. |
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43 psl.
... thou , O Time , dost harry Us , thine oppressed , and pleasured with the chase , Sparest to strike thy sorely - running quarry , Following not less with unrelenting face . Time , if Love hunt , and Sorrow hunt , with thee , Woe to the ...
... thou , O Time , dost harry Us , thine oppressed , and pleasured with the chase , Sparest to strike thy sorely - running quarry , Following not less with unrelenting face . Time , if Love hunt , and Sorrow hunt , with thee , Woe to the ...
61 psl.
... thou , ANTOINE ? Ah , Addle - pate ! Ah , Thief of Valet , always late ! Have I not told thee half - past eight A thousand times ! ( Great agitation . ) But wait , -but wait , - M. L'ÉTOILE ( stupefied ) . Just Skies ! What hideous roar ...
... thou , ANTOINE ? Ah , Addle - pate ! Ah , Thief of Valet , always late ! Have I not told thee half - past eight A thousand times ! ( Great agitation . ) But wait , -but wait , - M. L'ÉTOILE ( stupefied ) . Just Skies ! What hideous roar ...
152 psl.
... thou : I marke the Time : saye , Gossip , dost thou soe ? Here would the ringdoves linger , head to head ; And here the snail a silver course would run , Beating old Time ; and here the peacock spread His gold - green glory , shutting ...
... thou : I marke the Time : saye , Gossip , dost thou soe ? Here would the ringdoves linger , head to head ; And here the snail a silver course would run , Beating old Time ; and here the peacock spread His gold - green glory , shutting ...
184 psl.
... thou us men again ! Make thou us men again , -if men but groping That dark Hereafter which th ' Olympians keep ; Make thou us men again , -if men but hoping Behind death's doors security of sleep ; - For yet to laugh is somewhat , and ...
... thou us men again ! Make thou us men again , -if men but groping That dark Hereafter which th ' Olympians keep ; Make thou us men again , -if men but hoping Behind death's doors security of sleep ; - For yet to laugh is somewhat , and ...
189 psl.
... thou come , O Spring !. I am too sick for words ; How hast thou heart to sing , O Spring , with all thy birds ? MERULA . I sing for joy to see again The merry leaves along the lane , The little bud grown ripe ; And look , my love upon ...
... thou come , O Spring !. I am too sick for words ; How hast thou heart to sing , O Spring , with all thy birds ? MERULA . I sing for joy to see again The merry leaves along the lane , The little bud grown ripe ; And look , my love upon ...
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Autonoë BABETTE BALLADE BARON BEAU BROCADE beauty Belle Marquise BEN JONSON bird blue Boucher bright bright eyes brow Caliph CHALCEDONY CIRCE comes COUNTESS Cupid's Alley dance dear DENISE DOLLY dream E'en eyes face fair fawn that seeks Flowers FRANÇOIS BOUCHER FRANK grace gray grew hair heart Here's a present intended an Ode king more terrible kissed me to-day knew L'ÉTOILE laughing LAWRENCE lips London stones look Love Love's M'sieu Madam Maid Monsieur Muse myrtle twine Naught but myrtle NINETTE NINON o'er once pale pipe POET present for Rose PRINCESS Procris Pure song rhyme RONDEAU Rosina round School of Coquettes seeks its mother sigh sing smile song Stand and Deliver stirred stray fawn sweet swinger THEOCRITUS There's a tear thing thou thought thrush TRIOLETS turned Twas twixt VIEUXBOIS VILLANELLE watch weary wild and shy wind-flower yore
Populiarios ištraukos
210 psl. - Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. " He makes as though in our arms repelling He fain would lie, as he lay before ; Love comes back to his vacant dwelling...
12 psl. - And more, he read it. Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead ; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her ; And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her. " In Calo Quies " heads the stone On Leisure's grave, — now little known, A tangle of wild-rose has grown So thick across it ; The " Benefactions " still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And " 12...
234 psl. - — Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store ; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you " lift " or " accommodate " all that you do ; Take heart — though your Pegasus' withers be sore — For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! POSTSCRIPTUM.
171 psl. - TIME goes, you say? Ah, no! Alas, Time stays, we go; Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours? Time goes, you say? — ah no! Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low ; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee: — Alas, Time stays, — we go ! Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age ; Time goes,...
99 psl. - read " three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming ; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming, Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. " You're reading Greek?" " I am — and you?" " O, mine's a mere romancer ! "
233 psl. - From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew," Make answer— Beethoven could scarcely do more— That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply adapted from other men's lore; That— plainly to speak of a "spade...
97 psl. - If I were you ! Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, the mildest " honey-dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you! Nellie. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the Cynical Review : — Frank.
235 psl. - There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — • But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey!
112 psl. - Tis averred, That the souls of men, released From their bodies when deceased, Sometimes enter in a beast, — Or a bird. I have watched you long, Avice, — Watched you so, I have found your secret out ; And I know That the restless ribboned things, Where your slope of shoulder springs,. Are but undeveloped wings That will grow.
172 psl. - rose" and "snow"; My bird, that sang, is dead; Where are your roses fled? Alas, Time stays — we go! See, in what traversed ways, What backward Fate delays The hopes we used to know; Where are our old desires? — Ah, where those vanished fires? Time goes, you say? — ah no! How far, how far, O Sweet, The past behind our feet Lies in the even-glow ! Now, on the forward way, Let us fold hands, and pray; Alas, Time stays, — we go!