The Works and Life of Walter Savage Landor: Miscellaneous poems: Collection of 1846. Last fruit off an old tree. Dry sticks. Additional poems. Criticisms: Idyls of Theocritus. Poems of Catullus. Francesco PetrarcaChapman and Hall, 1876 - 4 psl. |
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xix psl.
... sound Death of the year ! wilt thou be also mine , Death stands above me , whispering low Death , tho ' I see him not , is near Deem me not sad and sorrowful . Deep forests hide the stoutest oaks ; Derwent ! Winander ! sweetest of all ...
... sound Death of the year ! wilt thou be also mine , Death stands above me , whispering low Death , tho ' I see him not , is near Deem me not sad and sorrowful . Deep forests hide the stoutest oaks ; Derwent ! Winander ! sweetest of all ...
xxxiv psl.
... sounds that swam along Where art thou gone , light - ankled Youth ? · Pp . 289 164 Where is , ah where ! the citron bloom Where Malvern's verdant ridges gleam Where three huge dogs are ramping yonder Whether a poet yet is left . Whether ...
... sounds that swam along Where art thou gone , light - ankled Youth ? · Pp . 289 164 Where is , ah where ! the citron bloom Where Malvern's verdant ridges gleam Where three huge dogs are ramping yonder Whether a poet yet is left . Whether ...
12 psl.
... sound : I love to hear that none rebell Against your beauty's silent spell . I know not whether I may bear To see it all , as well as hear ; And never shall I clearly know Unless you nod and tell me so . XXXV . Soon as Ianthe's lip I ...
... sound : I love to hear that none rebell Against your beauty's silent spell . I know not whether I may bear To see it all , as well as hear ; And never shall I clearly know Unless you nod and tell me so . XXXV . Soon as Ianthe's lip I ...
14 psl.
... : How many warble from the spray ! How many on the wing ! " Yet , yet , " say you , " one voice away I miss the sound of spring . " How little could that voice express , Beloved , when 14 WORKS OF LANDOR . [ COLLECTION.
... : How many warble from the spray ! How many on the wing ! " Yet , yet , " say you , " one voice away I miss the sound of spring . " How little could that voice express , Beloved , when 14 WORKS OF LANDOR . [ COLLECTION.
15 psl.
... sounds hath tenderness , Which neither shall forget . XLIII . Retired this hour from wondering crowds And flower - fed poets swathed in clouds , Now the dull dust is blown away , Ianthe , list to what I say . Verse is not always sure to ...
... sounds hath tenderness , Which neither shall forget . XLIII . Retired this hour from wondering crowds And flower - fed poets swathed in clouds , Now the dull dust is blown away , Ianthe , list to what I say . Verse is not always sure to ...
Pagrindiniai terminai ir frazės
Altho Amid art thou Avignon beauty bend beneath birds blest Boccaccio bosom brave breast breath bright brow call'd CARMEN Catullus Cicero cried crown dare death earth Eclogues eyes fate father fear flowers fond gentle girl glory graceful grave grief Gunlaug hair hand hast thou hath head hear heard heart heaven hexameters hope hour Ianthe Ianthe's IDYL Italy JULIUS HARE leave Leigh Hunt Lesbia light live look lookt maid maiden Milton morn Muse Nereids never o'er once Ovid Petrarca Pindar poem poet poetry praise priest Propertius proud pure Rafen rais'd rest rise Rome rose round shade shine sigh sing sleep smile song soon soul spring sweet tears tell tender thee Theocritus thine thou art thou hast thought thro Tibullus trochee twas Vaucluse verses Virgil voice wing wish words youth
Populiarios ištraukos
52 psl. - ROSE AYLMER AH, WHAT avails the sceptred race! Ah ! what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace ! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
393 psl. - And the swink'd hedger at his supper sat ; I saw them under a green mantling vine, That crawls along the side of yon small hill, Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots ; Their port was more than human, as they stood : I took it for a faery vision Of some gay creatures of the element, That in the colours of the rainbow live, And play i
41 psl. - tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me ; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
8 psl. - Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids. Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me.
338 psl. - WELL I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand— 'O! what a child! You think you're writing upon stone ! ' I have since written what no tide Shall ever wash away, what men Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide And find lanthe's name again.
40 psl. - ... precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night...
56 psl. - And intermarried and brancht off awide), She threw herself upon her couch, and wept ; On this side hung her head, and over that Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass That made the men as faithless. But when you Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear That they were only vestiges of smiles, Or the impression of some amorous hair Astray from cloistered curls and roseat band, Which had been lying there all night perhaps Upon a skin so soft . . . No, no...
388 psl. - For where no hope is left, is left no fear : If there be worse, the expectation more Of worse torments me than the feeling can. I would be at the worst, worst is my port, My harbour, and my ultimate repose ; The end I would attain, my final good.
270 psl. - Alas, how soon the hours are over Counted us out to play the lover ! And how much narrower is the stage Allotted us to play the sage ! But when we play the fool, how wide, $ The theatre expands ! beside, How long the audience sits before us! How many prompters ! what a chorus...
23 psl. - PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek Over my open volume you will say,