The World's Best Poetry ...J. D. Morris, 1904 |
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الصفحة 5
... Smile at the claims of long descent . Howe'er it be , it seems to me , ' T is only noble to be good . Kind hearts are more than coronets , And simple faith than Norman blood . I know you , Clara Vere de Vere : You DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE .
... Smile at the claims of long descent . Howe'er it be , it seems to me , ' T is only noble to be good . Kind hearts are more than coronets , And simple faith than Norman blood . I know you , Clara Vere de Vere : You DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE .
الصفحة 6
... moonlight flood , — " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To - night upon yon leafy isle ! Oft in my fancy's wanderings , I've wished that little isle had wings , And we , within its fairy bowers , Were wafted 6 POEMS OF SORROW .
... moonlight flood , — " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To - night upon yon leafy isle ! Oft in my fancy's wanderings , I've wished that little isle had wings , And we , within its fairy bowers , Were wafted 6 POEMS OF SORROW .
الصفحة 7
... smile her cheek put on ; But when she marked how mournfully His eyes met hers , that smile was gone ; And , bursting into heartfelt tears , " Yes , yes , " she cried , " my hourly fears , My dreams , have boded all too right , - We part ...
... smile her cheek put on ; But when she marked how mournfully His eyes met hers , that smile was gone ; And , bursting into heartfelt tears , " Yes , yes , " she cried , " my hourly fears , My dreams , have boded all too right , - We part ...
الصفحة 8
... smile on you , The kindly - beaming eye grow cold and strange , The heart still warmly beat , yet not be true . Love ... smiling sky , Beam o'er its grave , as once upon its birth . Love not ! Love not ! O warning vainly said In present ...
... smile on you , The kindly - beaming eye grow cold and strange , The heart still warmly beat , yet not be true . Love ... smiling sky , Beam o'er its grave , as once upon its birth . Love not ! Love not ! O warning vainly said In present ...
الصفحة 10
... Smiling at grief . Was not this love , indeed ? We men may say more , swear more : but , indeed , Our shows are more ... smiles that we love best , With morning blushes on her cheek , and pearls upon her breast . O turn again , fair Ines ...
... Smiling at grief . Was not this love , indeed ? We men may say more , swear more : but , indeed , Our shows are more ... smiles that we love best , With morning blushes on her cheek , and pearls upon her breast . O turn again , fair Ines ...
طبعات أخرى - عرض جميع المقتطفات
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?