Beauties of English LandscapeGeorge Routledge and Sons, 1874 - 301 páginas |
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Página 88
... flow'rets are springing , For my heart's light is darkened - my Cushlo - mo - chree ! Oh ! bright shone the morning when first as my bride , love , Thy foot like a sunbeam my threshold cross'd o'er ; And blest on our hearth fell that ...
... flow'rets are springing , For my heart's light is darkened - my Cushlo - mo - chree ! Oh ! bright shone the morning when first as my bride , love , Thy foot like a sunbeam my threshold cross'd o'er ; And blest on our hearth fell that ...
Página 106
... ? Never ! No , lost one , no ! To her grave these tears are given , Ever to flow ; She's the star I missed from heaven , Long time ago ! G. P. MORRIS . 107 GLIDE gently , thus for ever glide , O 106 While to my fond words she listened.
... ? Never ! No , lost one , no ! To her grave these tears are given , Ever to flow ; She's the star I missed from heaven , Long time ago ! G. P. MORRIS . 107 GLIDE gently , thus for ever glide , O 106 While to my fond words she listened.
Página 108
... flow As thy deep waters now are flowing . Vain thought ! -Yet be as now thou art , That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart , How bright , how solemn , how serene ! Such as did once the Poet bless , Who , murmuring ...
... flow As thy deep waters now are flowing . Vain thought ! -Yet be as now thou art , That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart , How bright , how solemn , how serene ! Such as did once the Poet bless , Who , murmuring ...
Página 130
... flows on through the vale of Cheapside . Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale , Down which she so often ... flow , and the hill will not rise , And the colours have all passed away from her eyes . WORDSWORTH . THE PLEASURES ...
... flows on through the vale of Cheapside . Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale , Down which she so often ... flow , and the hill will not rise , And the colours have all passed away from her eyes . WORDSWORTH . THE PLEASURES ...
Página 132
... flow'ry solitudes , To Nature's voice attends , from month to month , And day to day , through the revolving year ; Admiring , sees her in her ev'ry shape , Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart ; Takes what she lib'ral gives , nor ...
... flow'ry solitudes , To Nature's voice attends , from month to month , And day to day , through the revolving year ; Admiring , sees her in her ev'ry shape , Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart ; Takes what she lib'ral gives , nor ...
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Otras ediciones - Ver todas
Beauties of English Landscape (Classic Reprint) Myles Birket Foster Sin vista previa disponible - 2015 |
Términos y frases comunes
Astòr beam beauty behold beneath birds blessed bloom blue bosom boughs bower breathe bright brook BROTHERS calm Canst thou forget cliffs clouds Coloured cottage DALZIEL BROTHERS dark dear deep delight doth dream earth EDMUND EVANS ELIZA COOK fair fear flowers gentle gilt edges gleam glide gloom Grasmere grave green greenwood tree grove hand happy harebells hath heard heart heaven Helpmate HENRY KIRKE WHITE hill hour hung lassie light live lofty lonely look Maire bhan Astor merry morning mossy mountain murmur night o'er pleasure rills rocks round rove scene shade shepherd shines shore side sight silence sing skies sleep smile snow soft solitude song sorrow soul spread Spring steep stone stood stream summer tears thine thou art thoughts trees vale village voice wandering waters waves wild winds winter woods WORDSWORTH Yarrow youth
Pasajes populares
Página 14 - LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
Página 50 - This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.
Página 236 - Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised...
Página 200 - I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea.
Página 56 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day...
Página 56 - Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core...
Página 30 - Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place: The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day...
Página 232 - My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard, Thus fares it still in our decay; And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away Than what it leaves behind.
Página 222 - Reaper Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
Página 122 - NUNS fret not at their Convent's narrow room ; And Hermits are contented with their Cells ; And Students with their pensive Citadels : Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom, Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Pea.k of Furness Fells, Will murmur by the hour in Foxglove bells : In truth, the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is...