The World's Best Poetry ...J. D. Morris, 1904 |
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الصفحة xx
... bear , To grunt and sweat under a weary life , But that the dread of something after death , The undiscovered country from whose bourne No traveller returns , puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to ...
... bear , To grunt and sweat under a weary life , But that the dread of something after death , The undiscovered country from whose bourne No traveller returns , puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to ...
الصفحة xxiii
... Bear his mild yoke , they serve him best : his state Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed , And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait . " No prison statistics , no police reports , no re ...
... Bear his mild yoke , they serve him best : his state Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed , And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait . " No prison statistics , no police reports , no re ...
الصفحة 4
... bear your name ; Your pride is yet no mate for mine , Too proud to care from whence I came . Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms . A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats - of - arms ...
... bear your name ; Your pride is yet no mate for mine , Too proud to care from whence I came . Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms . A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats - of - arms ...
الصفحة 22
... bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom , though my heart be at the root . Never ! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many - wintered crow that leads the clang- ing rookery home . Where is ...
... bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom , though my heart be at the root . Never ! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many - wintered crow that leads the clang- ing rookery home . Where is ...
الصفحة 27
... world is more and more . Knowledge comes , but wisdom lingers , and he bears a laden breast , Full of sad experience moving toward the still- ness of his rest . Hark ! my merry comrades call me , sounding on DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE . 27.
... world is more and more . Knowledge comes , but wisdom lingers , and he bears a laden breast , Full of sad experience moving toward the still- ness of his rest . Hark ! my merry comrades call me , sounding on DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE . 27.
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عبارات ومصطلحات مألوفة
angels Annabel Lee Auf wiedersehen beauty behold beneath bird blessed bloom breast breath bright brow calm cheek child cold Cumnor dark days go dead dear death doth dream dying earth ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING eyes face fair Farewell fear flowers forever friends glory gone grave gray green grief hand hath hear heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW hope hour JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER kiss light lips live Lochaber look Lord LORD TENNYSON Lycidas Mary morning mother never nevermore night o'er old Kentucky home pain pale peace PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER Queen rest ROBERT BURNS Robin Adair rose shadow shining shore sigh silent sing sleep smile snow song sorrow soul spirit spring stars summer sweet tears tender thee There's thine THOMAS HOOD thou art thought Vere voice weary weep wild wind
مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 416 - Ay me, I fondly dream ! Had ye been there, for what could that have done ? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal Nature did lament...
الصفحة 158 - My grandmamma has said — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago — That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-cornered hat And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer...
الصفحة 416 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
الصفحة 142 - MY HEART aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk...
الصفحة 400 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
الصفحة 253 - Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes — Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade thro...
الصفحة 224 - But that the dread of something after death, — The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
الصفحة 197 - OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
الصفحة 181 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
الصفحة 224 - The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make, With a bare bodkin?