Poems of Sidney LanierC. Scribners Sons, 1884 - 252 psl. |
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Rezultatai 1–5 iš 39
xx psl.
... pain , through weariness , through sickness , through the uncongenial atmosphere of a farcical college and of a bare army and then of an exacting business life , through all the discouragement of being wholly unacquainted with literary ...
... pain , through weariness , through sickness , through the uncongenial atmosphere of a farcical college and of a bare army and then of an exacting business life , through all the discouragement of being wholly unacquainted with literary ...
4 psl.
... pain me , - Sift down tremors of sweet - within - sweet That advise me of more than they bring , -repeat Me the woods - smell that swiftly but now brought breath From the heaven - side bank of the river of death , — Teach me the terms ...
... pain me , - Sift down tremors of sweet - within - sweet That advise me of more than they bring , -repeat Me the woods - smell that swiftly but now brought breath From the heaven - side bank of the river of death , — Teach me the terms ...
11 psl.
... Pain and Doubt , infernal Power ? Or why not plunge thy blades about Some maggot politician throng Swarming to parcel out The body of a land , and rout The maw - conventicle , and ungorge Wrong ? What the cloud doeth The Lord knoweth ...
... Pain and Doubt , infernal Power ? Or why not plunge thy blades about Some maggot politician throng Swarming to parcel out The body of a land , and rout The maw - conventicle , and ungorge Wrong ? What the cloud doeth The Lord knoweth ...
15 psl.
... pain Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain , — Oh , now , unafraid , I am fain to face The vast sweet visage of space . To the edge of the wood I am drawn , I am drawn , Where the gray beach glimmering runs , as a belt of ...
... pain Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain , — Oh , now , unafraid , I am fain to face The vast sweet visage of space . To the edge of the wood I am drawn , I am drawn , Where the gray beach glimmering runs , as a belt of ...
17 psl.
... pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain . As the marsh - hen secretly builds on the watery sod , Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God : I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh - hen flies In ...
... pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain . As the marsh - hen secretly builds on the watery sod , Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God : I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh - hen flies In ...
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Pagrindiniai terminai ir frazės
A. P. Hill Æschylus ALABAMA Baby Charley BALTIMORE beauty Beethoven blue Brain breath burn calm CEDARCROFT cloud corn cried dark dawn dead dear death Dey's mightily Dinah doth dream e'er earth eyes fain fair Fair Lady faith flame fool France gaze GEORGIA grass grave grief Gris Grillon Habersham Hamish hand hast hath head hear heart heaven heavenly heerd hell hills hound JACQUERIE King kiss Lady land Lanier leapt light lips look Lord Raoul MACON marsh marshes of Glynn morn never night nine from eight Nirvâna o'er pain passion poem poet PRATTVILLE quoth Love rose round sail Santa Claus shame shine Sidney Lanier sigh smile song soul stars stood sweet tears thar thee thine tree twixt villeins violet wave West wife wild WILLIAM HAYES WARD wind wing wrought
Populiarios ištraukos
151 psl. - Evening Song Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea; How long they kiss, in sight of all the lands! Ah, longer, longer, we. Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra Night drinks all. 'Tis done! Love, lay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort Heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands; O Night, divorce our sun and sky apart — Never our lips, our hands.
250 psl. - Long as thine Art shall love true love, Long as thy Science truth shall know, Long as thine Eagle harms no Dove, Long as thy Law by law shall grow, Long as thy God is God above, Thy brother every man below, So long, dear Land of all my love, Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow!
6 psl. - Will break as a bubble o'er-blown in a dream,— Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night, Over-weighted with stars, over-freighted with light, Over-sated with beauty and silence, will seem But a bubble that broke in a dream, If a bound of degree to this grace be laid, Or a sound or a motion made.
34 psl. - Drew leaping to burn-ward; huskily rose His shouts, and his nether lip twitched, and his legs were o'er-weak for his will. So the deer darted lightly by Hamish and bounded away to the burn. But Maclean never bating his watch tarried waiting below...
xxxvi psl. - Let any sculptor hew us out the most ravishing combination of tender curves and spheric softness that ever stood for woman ; yet if the lip have a certain fulness that hints of the flesh, if the brow be insincere, if in the minutest particular the physical beauty suggest a moral ugliness, that sculptor — unless he be portraying a moral ugliness for a moral purpose — may as well give over his marble for paving-stones.
14 psl. - But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream...
24 psl. - OUT of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock and together again...
141 psl. - Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him: The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'Twas on a tree they slew Him —...
51 psl. - OF fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, Complain no more ; for these, O heart, Direct the random of the will As rhymes direct the rage of art. The lute's...