Poems by William Cullen BryantCarey and Hart, 1849 - 378 psl. |
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Rezultatai 1–5 iš 43
32 psl.
... voice of gladness , and a smile And eloquence of beauty , and she glides Into his darker musings , with a mild And healing sympathy , that steals away Their sharpness , ere he is aware . When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a ...
... voice of gladness , and a smile And eloquence of beauty , and she glides Into his darker musings , with a mild And healing sympathy , that steals away Their sharpness , ere he is aware . When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a ...
46 psl.
... In nature's loneliness , I was with one With whom I early grew familiar , one Who never had a frown for me , whose voice Never rebuked me for the hours I stole From cares I loved not , but of which the 46 POEMS . A Winter Piece.
... In nature's loneliness , I was with one With whom I early grew familiar , one Who never had a frown for me , whose voice Never rebuked me for the hours I stole From cares I loved not , but of which the 46 POEMS . A Winter Piece.
50 psl.
... voices wakes The shriller echo , as the clear pure lymph , That from the wounded trees , in twinkling drops , Falls , mid the golden brightness of the morn , Is gathered in with brimming pails , and oft , Wielded by sturdy hands , the ...
... voices wakes The shriller echo , as the clear pure lymph , That from the wounded trees , in twinkling drops , Falls , mid the golden brightness of the morn , Is gathered in with brimming pails , and oft , Wielded by sturdy hands , the ...
59 psl.
... Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews . Then softest gales are breathed , and softest heard The plaining voice of streams , and pensive note of bird . They who here roamed , of yore , the forest A WALK AT SUNSET . 59 A Walk at Sunset.
... Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews . Then softest gales are breathed , and softest heard The plaining voice of streams , and pensive note of bird . They who here roamed , of yore , the forest A WALK AT SUNSET . 59 A Walk at Sunset.
62 psl.
... voice unworthy of the theme it tries , — I would take up the hymn to Death , and say To the grim power , The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee . On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown , and call thee king Of ...
... voice unworthy of the theme it tries , — I would take up the hymn to Death , and say To the grim power , The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee . On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown , and call thee king Of ...
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Pagrindiniai terminai ir frazės
amid beauty behold beneath bird blood bloom blossoms blue boughs breath bright brook brow calm city spires clouds cold dark day-dawn dead Deadly assassin death deep deer dwell earth EARTH'S CHILDREN eyes fair flowers forest gaze gentle glad glen glide glittering glorious glory grass grave Greece green groves hand hear heart heaven hills hour hymn insect wings land leaves light look lovers walk maid maiden maize Maquon mighty mighty heart mingled morning mountain murmur night o'er Oh father pass pleasant red ruler rest rill Rizpah rocks round savannas shade shine shore sight silent skies sleep smile soft song sound spirit spring Stockbridge stream summer sweet swell tears thee thine thou thou art thou dost thou hast thou shalt trees tulip-tree vale voice wandering warrior watch waters weep wild wind-flower winds wings woods youth
Populiarios ištraukos
41 psl. - WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way...
32 psl. - To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware.
340 psl. - When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee. They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven.
207 psl. - God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the...
219 psl. - Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has passed away, Built them; - a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon.
153 psl. - THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread ; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers...
132 psl. - ... breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; — nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does.
218 psl. - These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful. For which the speech of England has no name— The Prairies.
34 psl. - Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
32 psl. - Yet a few days and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image.