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Alps angel beauty believe beneficent better black bat character chivalry Christian cloud darkness divine dream dress duty earnest earth England eternal eyes faith fancy feelings of delight flowers folly garden gate girl girl's give Golden Classics Greek hand happy harebell hear heart heathen heaven Homer honour hope household Household Gods human husband imagination instinct intellect Ireland Irish Joan of Arc JOHN RUSKIN kind King Lear knew knighthood labour Lady least less literature lives Lombardic Lord loveliness means mind mystery nature never noble once Othello Parnassus passion peace perfect perhaps persons poet pomegranate pride queenly queens Redgauntlet religious respect rightly shadow Shakespeare Snowdon soul speak strange strength sure sweet talk teach tell thing thought true truth vanity virtue vital wholly wild wisdom wise wisest woman womanly women words youth
Seite 79 - Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.
Seite 61 - THREE years she grew in sun and shower ; Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own.
Seite 36 - She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.
Seite 79 - For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. All...
Seite 61 - The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Seite 36 - She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet.
Seite 26 - ... there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will.
Seite 79 - There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.