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Seite 255 - Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie : His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Seite 279 - twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Seite 262 - 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 nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Seite 279 - The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world.
Seite 262 - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Seite 276 - There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live, — If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself— The last infirmity of evil.
Seite 275 - She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe; nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not; And tenderness — but that I had for her ; Humility — and that I never had. Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — I loved her, and destroy'd her ! WITCH.
Seite 261 - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 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...