Byron und die romantische Poesie in Frankreich

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Pöschel & Trepte, 1901 - 103 páginas

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Página 95 - The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul...
Página 35 - Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute: Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie...
Página 75 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead, Ere the first day of death is fled ; The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress...
Página 75 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some' moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
Página 35 - Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
Página 42 - The mind that broods o'er guilty woes, Is like the scorpion girt by fire ; In circle narrowing as it glows, The flames around their captive close, Till, inly...
Página 32 - What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King Cheops erected the first pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid: But somebody or other rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
Página 63 - If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, And Pegasus runs restive in his "Waggon," Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, He...
Página 100 - With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee— by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now : But 'tis done — all words are idle — Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well ! thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie,...
Página 101 - Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee, Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe. Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

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