ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة
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الصفحة 132 - And but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart...
الصفحة 350 - The school-boy whips his taxed top ; the beardless youth manages his taxed horse with a taxed bridle, on a taxed road ; and the dying Englishman, pouring his medicine, which has paid seven per cent., into a spoon that has paid fifteen per cent., flings himself back upon his...
الصفحة 359 - O God, if there be a God, save my soul, if I have a soul !' This was followed by a general laugh.
الصفحة 266 - The flash of Wit, the bright Intelligence, The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun, but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon.
الصفحة 133 - Here is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath : But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue that haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away, Spark of that flame perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.
الصفحة 51 - Is it a fiend that to a stake Of fire his desperate self is tethering ? Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell In solitary ward or cell, Ten thousand miles from all his brethren.
الصفحة 265 - WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day In summer's twilight weeps itself away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While nature makes that melancholy pause, Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime.
الصفحة 352 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye?