PoemsC. Scribner's sons, 1905 - 255 psl. |
Pagrindiniai terminai ir frazės
a-maying a-roving Alfred Nutt Badroulbadour BALLADE Bedreddin blackbird blackbird plays blessing blue bugles blown Clanging clouds comes dark dead dear Death dews dream dripping dusk Edition printed enchanted Envoy face faded Fate's a fiddler floats friends ghost gleam gloom glow goes golden grace grave green grey hand Hark heart Herne the Hunter hushed irresistible song laughed lean Life's a dance light live loitering look loud Love blows Midsummer days Midsummer nights mistress of mistresses night go Nightingale numbers Nurse old Japan once in old pass pride quiet ring roaring rose round sang shadows shine shore singing skies sleep smile song soul sound spirit spring staring stars stars is burning strange street summer sunset sunshine sway sweet Sword tall Thomas Edward Brown thrill Thro Thunder Vanity of Vanities voice wander wild WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY wind wine wood's green world of Age
Populiarios ištraukos
164 psl. - Or ever the knightly years were gone, With the old world to the grave, I was a king in Babylon, And you were a Christian slave.
253 psl. - WHAT have I done for you, England, my England ? What is there I would not do, England, my own ? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England — Round the world on your bugles blown ! Where shall the watchful Sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done. England, my own ? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown...
119 psl. - 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. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate...
194 psl. - Calls to his millions to behold and see How goodly this his London Town can be ! For earth and sky and air Are golden everywhere, And golden with a gold so suave and fine The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
161 psl. - A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies ; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing...
253 psl. - Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice agen, Such A breed of mighty men, As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England Down' the years on your bugles blown?
13 psl. - The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes ; The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies ; The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace. These thirty years has she been nursing here, Some of them under SYME, her hero still. Much is she worth, and even more is made of her. Patients and students hold her very dear. The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill. They say ' The Chief ' himself is half-afraid of her.
209 psl. - WHERE forlorn sunsets flare and fade On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange command Calling you still, as friend calls friend With love that cannot brook delay, To rise and follow the ways that wend Over the hills and far away?
196 psl. - Fiend, the abominable — The hangman wind that tortures temper and light — Comes slouching, sullen and obscene, Hard on the skirts of the embittered night : And in a cloud unclean Of excremental humours, roused to strife By the operation of some ruinous change Wherever his evil mandate run and range Into a dire intensity of life, A craftsman at his bench, he settles down To the grim job of throttling London Town.
123 psl. - Fill a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live. Yet again! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met. All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death.