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Anchises Art thou battle of Wakefield beauty behold beneath bien birds born breath bright brown nightjar c'est cloud dark dead dear death deep delight Dieu divine dost doth dream earth EMILY BRONTE eternal evil eyes fair fear flowers glory grave green grief hand happy hath heard heart heaven hither hope human I N D E X Ideal Love immortal KEATs Kirconnell Lavengro light live look Lord Lycidas MILTON mind moon morn mortal nature never night o'er pain PLATO pleasure Poems praise Priam qu'il R. W. Dixon SHAKESPEARE SHELLEY sight silent sing sleep Song Songs of Experience Sonnet sorrow soul spirit Spring stanza sweet tears thee thine things thou art thou hast thought thro thyself tout True Thomas truth unto virtue voice W. B. YEATs wandering waves wild wind wings wisdom words youth
Seite 65 - But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
Seite 457 - We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Seite 469 - And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. The One remains, the many change and pass ; Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's shadows fly ; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.
Seite 251 - And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare...
Seite 199 - And, father cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born.
Seite 183 - THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Seite 193 - He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Seite 9 - Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung ; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
Seite 179 - E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, ' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.