The World's Best Poetry ...J. D. Morris, 1904 |
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Página xix
... mind of the suicide , not merely the mind of the philosopher coolly debating sui- cide , we must turn to the poet . " To be , or not to be : that is the question : Whether ' tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of ...
... mind of the suicide , not merely the mind of the philosopher coolly debating sui- cide , we must turn to the poet . " To be , or not to be : that is the question : Whether ' tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of ...
Página xxiv
... mind , the dull despair , the inexplicable paralysis of feeling , intermingling in one wholly incon- sistent and incongruous experience : where , in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such an exposition and echo and ...
... mind , the dull despair , the inexplicable paralysis of feeling , intermingling in one wholly incon- sistent and incongruous experience : where , in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such an exposition and echo and ...
Página 4
... mind . You sought to prove how I could love , And my disdain is my reply . The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere , You put strange memories in my head . Not thrice your branching lines ...
... mind . You sought to prove how I could love , And my disdain is my reply . The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere , You put strange memories in my head . Not thrice your branching lines ...
Página 12
... minds me o ' departed joys , Departed - never to return . Thou ' t break my heart , thou bonnie bird , That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat , and sae I sang , And wistna o ' my fate . Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon , To see the ...
... minds me o ' departed joys , Departed - never to return . Thou ' t break my heart , thou bonnie bird , That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat , and sae I sang , And wistna o ' my fate . Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon , To see the ...
Página 14
... mind of spring or summer days , Are sodden trunk and songless bough . The past sits widowed on her brow , Homeward she wends with wintry gaze , To walls that house a hollow vow , To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze ; Watches the ...
... mind of spring or summer days , Are sodden trunk and songless bough . The past sits widowed on her brow , Homeward she wends with wintry gaze , To walls that house a hollow vow , To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze ; Watches the ...
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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?