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Seite 521 - Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — We in ourselves rejoice ! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.
Seite 521 - All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Seite 62 - That gravity should be innate, inherent and essential to matter, so that one body may act upon another at a distance through a vacuum, without the mediation of anything else, by and through which their action and force may be conveyed from one to another, is to me so great an absurdity, that I believe no man who has in philosophical matters a competent faculty of thinking, can ever fall into it.
Seite 288 - For she had said unto the servant, What man is this that walketh in the field to meet us?
Seite 521 - Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope ; And hope that scarce would know itself from fear ; Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, And genius given, and knowledge won in vain...
Seite 329 - Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears...
Seite 440 - UP with me ! up with me into the clouds ! For thy song, Lark, is strong; Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! Singing, singing, With clouds and sky about thee ringing, Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind...
Seite 468 - What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.
Seite 440 - With Thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day Thy victories : Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
Seite 440 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.