The White Hills: Their Legends, Landscape, and Poetry

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Crosby, Nichols,, 1860 - Всего страниц: 403
 

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Стр. 88 - And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, •An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers...
Стр. 171 - I CHATTER over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
Стр. 168 - Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever.
Стр. 58 - The charming landscape which I saw this morning, is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet.
Стр. 168 - The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory, 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...
Стр. 150 - To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial...
Стр. 89 - And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace...
Стр. 182 - Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.
Стр. 161 - Of old hast THOU laid the foundation of the earth : And the heavens are the work of thy hands. They shall perish, but THOU shalt endure : Yea, all of them shall wax old like a garment ; As a vesture shalt THOU change them, and they shall be changed : But THOU art the same, And thy years shall have no end.
Стр. 171 - 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 men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

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