Lyrical BalladsDuckworth, 1907 - 263 من الصفحات |
عبارات ومصطلحات مألوفة
Alfoxden ancient Mariner Ancyent Marinere appeared babe beauty beneath Betty Betty Foy bird Bristol Cain child Coleridge Coleridge's Cottle dead dear earth fair father fear feelings Female Vagrant gentle Goody Blake green Harry Gill hath head hear heard heart human Idiot Boy Johnny Kilve Lamb Legouis LEWTI limbs LINES WRITTEN look Lyrical Ballads Martha Ray Matthews Dent mind moon moonlight mother nature Nether Stowey never night Nightingale o'er pain Papiniane passion Peter Bell pleasure poem poet poet's poetic poetry poor pray quoth river Swale rock round S. T. Coleridge sense ship silent Simon Lee soul Southey Southey's spirit stanza stars stood Stowey Susan sweet tale tears tell thee There's things thorn thou thought Three Graves Tintern Abbey turn'd Twas voice wedding-guest weft wild WILLIAM WORDSWORTH wind woman wood words Wordsworth ΙΟ
مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 26 - Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company! — To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay ! Farewell, farewell!
الصفحة 25 - Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round*; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound...
الصفحة xliii - ... my voice proclaims How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the external World Is fitted: — and how exquisitely, too—- Theme this but little heard of among men—- The external World is fitted to the Mind; And the creation (by no lower name Can it be called) which they with blended might Accomplish: — this is our high argument.
الصفحة 70 - Their thoughts I cannot measure : — But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
الصفحة 216 - We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip) — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.
الصفحة 130 - Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations'.
الصفحة 127 - In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart— How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!
الصفحة 25 - full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row." And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" The Hermit crossed his brow. "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say What manner of man art thou?
الصفحة 209 - In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and Is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there Is a silent Joy at their arrival.
الصفحة 23 - How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,' "Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?