ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة
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طبعات أخرى - عرض جميع المقتطفات
appears arms bear beauty beneath better blood breast breath brow called cause character chief child dark dead death deep dream earth face fair fall fame father fear feel fire flow gave gaze give given hand hath head hear heard heart heaven hope hour Italy Juan knew lady land late least leave less light live look Lord Byron manner mark means mind mountains nature never night o'er occasion once passed passion past perhaps person poem poet present raise reply rest rise roll round scarce scene seemed seen shore sigh smile song soon soul sound speak spirit tears thee thine things thou thought true turned voice wave wild young youth
الصفحة 560 - You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one?
الصفحة 400 - Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.
الصفحة 330 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms - the day Battle's magnificently stern array...
الصفحة 394 - I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand ; I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles...
الصفحة 559 - Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still?
الصفحة 699 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone ! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile.
الصفحة 329 - twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet But hark!
الصفحة 346 - Twas still some solace in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each, With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold.