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art thou beam beauty beneath bird blue born bosom breast breath breeze bright brow charm cheek clouds cold Connecticut dark dead death deep dream earth fair fear feel flowers friends gaze gentle gleam glorious glory glow grave green hand Harvard College hast hath hear heart heaven hills holy hope hour land leaves life's light lips living lone look look'd lyre morning mountain muse Nashaway ne'er neath never night Norridgewock o'er pale pass'd poems prayer pride rapture rills round scene seem'd seraph shade shadows shine shore sigh silent sing skies sleep smile soft song soul sound spirit spring stars storm stream sublime sunny sweet tears tempest thee thine thou art thought tomb tree Twas voice wake wandering wave weary whip-poor-will wild wind wings woods Yale College youth Zophiel
Seite 103 - To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Seite 121 - WHEN Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night. And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.
Seite 103 - Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements — To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon.
Seite 214 - ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house 'at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Seite 109 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seite 103 - When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men— The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow...
Seite 275 - Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior ! "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!
Seite 103 - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Seite 213 - Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
Seite 103 - Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.