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Peace: Or the Stolen Will! an American Novel (1858)
Mary Wolcott Janvrin
Недоступно для просмотра - 2008
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Стр. 1 - Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now.
Стр. 386 - Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame — She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful — such as had not staid Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
Стр. 213 - There, I maddened! her words stung me. Life swept through me into fever, And my soul sprang up astonished, sprang full-statured in an hour. Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic NEVER, To a Pythian height dilates you, and despair sublimes to power?
Стр. 41 - THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
Стр. 262 - Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — Is human love the growth of human will...
Стр. 323 - By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?
Стр. 353 - Nor is it aught, if from the censuring world I can but hide it. Reputation, Thou art a word, no more ! — But thou hast shown An impudence so high, that to the world I fear thou wilt betray or shame thyself.
Стр. 357 - For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been...
Стр. 169 - Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even — Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged Angels go, Bearing the holy Dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers — those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the...