The World's Best Poetry ...J. D. Morris, 1904 |
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Página xiii
... dead simulacra ; imitations of art , not real art . This is the reason why no mechanical device , be it never so skillfully contrived , can ever take the place of the living artist . The pianola can never rival the living performer ...
... dead simulacra ; imitations of art , not real art . This is the reason why no mechanical device , be it never so skillfully contrived , can ever take the place of the living artist . The pianola can never rival the living performer ...
Página 5
Not thrice your branching lines have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead . O your sweet eyes , your low replies : A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see . Lady Clara ...
Not thrice your branching lines have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead . O your sweet eyes , your low replies : A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see . Lady Clara ...
Página 21
... dead before me , though I slew thee with my hand . Better thou and I were lying , hidden from the heart's disgrace , Rolled in one another's arms , and silent in a last embrace . Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength ...
... dead before me , though I slew thee with my hand . Better thou and I were lying , hidden from the heart's disgrace , Rolled in one another's arms , and silent in a last embrace . Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength ...
Página 23
... dead , unhappy night , and when the rain is on the roof . Like a dog , he hunts in dreams ; and thou art staring at the wall , Where the dying night - lamp flickers , and the shadows rise and fall . Then a hand shall pass before thee ...
... dead , unhappy night , and when the rain is on the roof . Like a dog , he hunts in dreams ; and thou art staring at the wall , Where the dying night - lamp flickers , and the shadows rise and fall . Then a hand shall pass before thee ...
Página 33
... and mickle did we say : Ae kiss we took - nae mair - I bad him gang away . I wish that I were dead , but I'm no like to dee , And why do I live to say , Wae is me ! I gang like a ghaist , and I carena to 3 DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE . 33.
... and mickle did we say : Ae kiss we took - nae mair - I bad him gang away . I wish that I were dead , but I'm no like to dee , And why do I live to say , Wae is me ! I gang like a ghaist , and I carena to 3 DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE . 33.
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Términos y frases comunes
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
Pasajes populares
Página 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...
Página 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...
Página 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.
Página 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...
Página 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...
Página 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...
Página 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...
Página 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.
Página 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.
Página 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?