The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table: Every Man His Own BoswellHoughton, Mifflin, 1883 - 411 Seiten |
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American elm asked asphyxia beauty beneath Benjamin Franklin better brain call John chair cheroot comes commonly conversation Cotton Mather course dandyism dear divinity-student Doctor of Divinity doubt dream England England town English elm eyes face fact falchion fancy feel feet flowers green grow hand head hear heard heart horse Houyhnhnm human intellectual kind lady landlady's daughter laugh lecture lips literary living long path look man's mean meerschaum ment mind morning Nature never Note o'er old age once Paper Nautilus perhaps person poem poets poor porringer Profes Professor race remarks remember round rowlocks schoolmistress seen smile sometimes soul speak spring stone story suppose sweet talk tell things thought tion told trees true truth turned uttered verses voice walk waves woman words write young fellow youth
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Seite 115 - This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell...
Seite 310 - So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke — That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the
Seite 312 - The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the -Moses - was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill.
Seite 116 - Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
Seite 311 - they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came: — Running as usual, much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive ; And then came fifty -and fifty-five.
Seite 327 - LITTLE I ask ; my wants are few : I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brown stone will do) That I may call my own ; — And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me ; Three courses are as good as ten ; — If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! I always thought cold victual nice ; — My choice would be vanilla-ice.
Seite 110 - I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it, — but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.
Seite 328 - ... heavy silks are never dear) ; — I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait — two, forty-five — Suits me ; I do not care; — Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt...
Seite 310 - T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that...
Seite 372 - O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine...