Wordsworth to DobellThomas Humphry Ward Macmillan and Company, 1883 |
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10 ÆäÀÌÁö
... strange to his age ; it has ceased to be so to ours . In various ways and with varying merit , Thackeray and Dickens and George Eliot , and a crowd of writers , poets and novel- ists , have searched out the motifs of the highest poetry ...
... strange to his age ; it has ceased to be so to ours . In various ways and with varying merit , Thackeray and Dickens and George Eliot , and a crowd of writers , poets and novel- ists , have searched out the motifs of the highest poetry ...
43 ÆäÀÌÁö
... Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; My True - love sighed for sorrow ; And looked me in the face , to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! ' Oh ! green , ' said I , ' are Yarrow's holms , And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! Fair ...
... Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; My True - love sighed for sorrow ; And looked me in the face , to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! ' Oh ! green , ' said I , ' are Yarrow's holms , And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! Fair ...
70 ÆäÀÌÁö
... strange that all The terrors , pains , and early miseries , Regrets , vexations , lassitudes interfused Within my mind , should e'er have borne a part , And that a needful part , in making up The calm existence that is mine when I Am ...
... strange that all The terrors , pains , and early miseries , Regrets , vexations , lassitudes interfused Within my mind , should e'er have borne a part , And that a needful part , in making up The calm existence that is mine when I Am ...
100 ÆäÀÌÁö
... Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart endure , Which hopes from thee , and thee alone , a cure . NOVEMBER , 1793 . There is strange music in the 100 THE ENGLISH POETS . Written at Ostend Influence of Time on Grief November 1793.
... Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart endure , Which hopes from thee , and thee alone , a cure . NOVEMBER , 1793 . There is strange music in the 100 THE ENGLISH POETS . Written at Ostend Influence of Time on Grief November 1793.
101 ÆäÀÌÁö
Thomas Humphry Ward. NOVEMBER , 1793 . There is strange music in the stirring wind , When lowers the autumnal eve , and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone , Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock , and ...
Thomas Humphry Ward. NOVEMBER , 1793 . There is strange music in the stirring wind , When lowers the autumnal eve , and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone , Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock , and ...
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ballads beauty beneath Beppo breast breath bright Brignall brow Byron Canto Charles Lamb Childe Harold Childe Harold's Pilgrimage cloud cold Coleridge County Guy dark dead dear death deep delight Don Juan doth dream earth EDWARD DOWDEN Emily Brontë English eyes face fair fame fear feel flowers friends gaze genius gentle Giaour grave green hand happy Hartley Coleridge hast hath heard heart heaven hill hope hour human Keats lady lake Leigh Hunt light live lone look mind moon mountains nature ne'er never night o'er once PARISINA passion poems poet poetic poetry round Samian wine scene shade Shelley shore silent sing sleep smile song sorrow soul spirit stars stood stream sweet tears thee thine things thou art thought trees Twas verse voice wandering waves weary wild wind Wordsworth youth
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280 ÆäÀÌÁö - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll [ Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy...
28 ÆäÀÌÁö - SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me...
363 ÆäÀÌÁö - The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given. The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ! Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
405 ÆäÀÌÁö - Fade, far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
411 ÆäÀÌÁö - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease ; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
278 ÆäÀÌÁö - O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
281 ÆäÀÌÁö - Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
331 ÆäÀÌÁö - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth...
407 ÆäÀÌÁö - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth...
407 ÆäÀÌÁö - Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.