ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة
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طبعات أخرى - عرض جميع المقتطفات
ALBERT PIKE autumn beam beautiful beneath bird blest bloom blossoms bowers breast breath bright brow chimes clouds dark deep dost dreams dwell earth EDWARD SANFORD EPES SARGENT eternal FITz-GREENE HALLECK flashed flowers FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD friends gaze gentle gleam glorious glory grave green Hadad hath hear heart heaven hills hour hues leaves light lingers lone look melody moon morning mother mountain mournful murmur neath night North Burial Ground o'er PARK BENJAMIN PHILIP FRENEAU rest roar rock rolled round RUFUS DAWES shade shadows shine shore sing skies sleep slumbers smile soft song soul sound spirit spring stars storm stream summer sunbeams sweet swells tears tempest thee thine Thou art thoughts throng tree twilight vale voice WASHINGTON ALLSTON waters waves weary wild WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT winds wings WOICE woods youthful
الصفحة 35 - It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin. Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
الصفحة 95 - ... heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave ; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.
الصفحة 33 - Week in. week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
الصفحة 160 - And hung his bow upon thy awful front, And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake The "sound of many waters," and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.
الصفحة 281 - The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past, yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud...
الصفحة 33 - His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
الصفحة 18 - A sister to the night !— Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast: Sleep not! — from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay With looks, whose brightness well might make Of...
الصفحة 283 - He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And...