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Стр. 98 - I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow . To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
Стр. 100 - I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along and flow To join the brimming river, For nun may come, and men may go, But I go on forever.
Стр. 84 - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
Стр. 282 - In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the Gods see everywhere.
Стр. 263 - What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May wind's restless wings, When from the orchard row he pours Its fragrance through our open doors. A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom We plant with the apple tree.
Стр. 102 - So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his thread-bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! "Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit looking round "Not coming,
Стр. 101 - Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence ; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons ; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and, getting the corners of his monstrous...
Стр. 116 - I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air...
Стр. 143 - How beautiful is night ! A dewy freshness fills the silent air, No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven : In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths.