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Стр. 16 - Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Стр. 97 - But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales ; and far and near, In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other's song, With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, And one low piping sound more sweet than all — • Stirring the air with such a harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes.
Стр. 97 - Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence...
Стр. 97 - Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes; As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music...
Стр. 72 - TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Стр. 128 - Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.
Стр. 72 - Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Стр. 41 - May sun sheds an amber light On new-leaved woods and lawns between ; But she who, with a smile more bright, Welcomed and watched the springing green, Is in her grave, Low in her grave. The fair white blossoms of the wood In groups beside the pathway stand ; But one, the gentle and the good, Who cropped them with a fairer hand, Is in her grave, Low in her grave. Upon the woodland's morning airs The small birds...