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Kiti leidimai - Peržiūrėti viską
arms beat beauty better blood blow born break breath cold comes dark dead dear death deep dream dying early earth eyes face fair faith fall feet field fire flower golden half hand happy head hear heard heart Heaven hill hold hope hour hundred Isle Italy kiss Lady land late leave light lips live look Lord mind moon morn mother move Nature never night once pain pass past peace Queen rest Ring rise rose round seem'd sense shadow silent sing sleep song soul sound speak spirit Spring star summer sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thought thro Till true truth turn voice wave weep wild wind
157 psl. - Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
227 psl. - THERE rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
243 psl. - Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.
22 psl. - Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
145 psl. - What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day ? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away.
103 psl. - The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story : The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
29 psl. - I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit there to wander far away, On from island unto island at ,the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.
227 psl. - Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock ; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men.