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Ador adown angels Art thou beauty beneath beside bird bless bowed breath bright brow calm child cloud cold crown curse dark dear death deep doth dream drop earth earthly ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING evermore face feet flowers gaze GEORGE SAND glory God's Goethe golden grass grief hands hath hear hearken heart heaven heavenly hills holy human knee lift light lips look Margret meek moon mother mystic Naiads Neath o'er pain pale Pan is dead poet poet's praise prayed prayer pulses river floweth roll rose-tree round second sight seraph shadow shining sigh sight silence sing sleep smile soft solemn song soul sound spirit stars strong sweet Sweetest eyes Synesius tears tender thine things Thou art thought throne trees tremble unto voice vow to thee wave wear ween weep wind wings word Zerah
Стр. 187 - What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows? — He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Стр. 208 - And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so brokenhearted, He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation.
Стр. 188 - Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved sleep.
Стр. 188 - His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap : More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Стр. 194 - We were not cruel, yet did sunder His white wing from the blue waves under, And bound it, while his fearless eyes Shone up to ours in calm surprise, As deeming us some ocean wonder.
Стр. 287 - By your beauty, which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, — By our grand heroic guesses. Through your falsehood, at the True, — We will weep not, . . . / earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole — And Pan is dead. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth : And those debonaire romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot-course is run ! Look up, poets, to the sun ! Pan, Pan is dead.
Стр. 137 - Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white Well satisfied with dew and light And careless to be seen. Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all.
Стр. 237 - WE overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination (given us to bring down The choirs of singing angels overshone By God's clear glory) down our earth to rake The dismal snows instead, — flake following flake, To cover all the corn. We walk upon The shadow of hills across a level thrown, And pant like climbers.
Стр. 305 - Queen!' from hill to mart. She heard through all her beating heart, And turned and wept— She wept, to wear a crown ! , ' God save thee, weeping Queen! Thou shalt be well beloved!
Стр. 235 - we cry, " O dreary life ! " And still the generations of the birds Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds Serenely live while we are keeping strife With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife Against which we may struggle. Ocean girds Unslackened the dry land...