Songs of Three CenturiesJohn Greenleaf Whittier J.R. Osgood, 1875 - 352 psl. |
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v psl.
... feeling . The Muse of our time is a free but profoundly reverent inquirer ; it is rarely found in " the seat of the scorner . " If it does not always speak in the prescribed language of creed and formula , its utterances often give ...
... feeling . The Muse of our time is a free but profoundly reverent inquirer ; it is rarely found in " the seat of the scorner . " If it does not always speak in the prescribed language of creed and formula , its utterances often give ...
4 psl.
... feels His bones with pains opprest , How he would be a rich old man , To live and lie at rest : The rich old man that ... feel Them hanging on my chin . The which do write two ages past , The third now coming in . " Hang up , therefore ...
... feels His bones with pains opprest , How he would be a rich old man , To live and lie at rest : The rich old man that ... feel Them hanging on my chin . The which do write two ages past , The third now coming in . " Hang up , therefore ...
6 psl.
... feel'st a lover's case ; I read it in thy looks , thy languished grace To me that feel the like thy state descries . Then , even of fellowship , O Moon , tell me , Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as ...
... feel'st a lover's case ; I read it in thy looks , thy languished grace To me that feel the like thy state descries . Then , even of fellowship , O Moon , tell me , Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as ...
10 psl.
... feel no care of coin , Well - doing is my wealth : My mind to me an empire is , While grace affordeth health . I clip high - climbing thoughts , The wings of swelling pride : Their fate is worst , that from the height Of greater honor ...
... feel no care of coin , Well - doing is my wealth : My mind to me an empire is , While grace affordeth health . I clip high - climbing thoughts , The wings of swelling pride : Their fate is worst , that from the height Of greater honor ...
15 psl.
... feel no want , nor have too much . The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; Extremes are counted worst of all ; The golden mean betwixt them both Doth surest sit , and fears no fall ; This is my choice ; for why , I find No wealth is like ...
... feel no want , nor have too much . The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; Extremes are counted worst of all ; The golden mean betwixt them both Doth surest sit , and fears no fall ; This is my choice ; for why , I find No wealth is like ...
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angels beauty BEGONE DULL CARE bells beneath bird blessed bliss bonnie Braes breast breath bright busk calm Christabel clouds dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth EDMUND SPENSER Edom eternal eyes face fair fear flowers frae Glenlogie glory golden grace grave green Grongar Hill hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hill holy hour Hymn Inchcape Rock JOHN BYROM Kilmeny kiss lady land lassie light live Lochaber lonely look Lord maun mind morning mourn ne'er never night o'er praise rest rose round Saint Agnes SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE scorn shade shine shore sigh sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit spring stars sweet tears tell thee thine thou art thought tree unto vale voice wandering waves weary weel ween weep wild WILLIAM SHENSTONE wind wings Yarrow
Populiarios ištraukos
125 psl. - But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
66 psl. - Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all: And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
209 psl. - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
30 psl. - GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
125 psl. - For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
160 psl. - 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.
223 psl. - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,
37 psl. - The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
97 psl. - 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...
223 psl. - Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!