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American Classics: For Seventh and Eighth Grade Reading; With Biographical ...
Hanson Hart Webster
Недоступно для просмотра - 2018
American Classics: For Seventh and Eighth Grade Reading: With Biographical ...
Hanson Hart Webster
Недоступно для просмотра - 2015
Acadian American ANNABEL LEE Baltus Van Tassel Basil bear beauty began beheld bells BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH CHAMBERED NAUTILUS character church clouds dark death door Dutch Emerson England English Ernest Evangeline eyes farmer father fire forest friends Gabriel Gathergold gleam Grand-Pré hand Hawthorne head heard heart heaven hill human humorous Ichabod Ichabod Crane Indian Irving Israfel labor light literary literature lived looked maiden mind morning mountain Nathaniel Hawthorne nature neighboring never Nevermore night Nova Scotia o'er passed pine Poe's poem poet poetry Raven Rip Van Winkle river rocks round seemed shadow shore side silence Sir Launfal Sleepy Hollow smile snow soul sound speech spirit Stone Face stood story stream sweet thee thou thought tion tree trout turned valley village voice Washington Irving wind winter wonder woods words
Стр. 194 - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Стр. 362 - All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells!
Стр. 175 - To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Стр. 352 - Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore, For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Nameless here for evermore.
Стр. 159 - 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. 357 - This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch...
Стр. 176 - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone.
Стр. 129 - Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play! Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, The truth to flesh and sense unknown, That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own!
Стр. 194 - NAUTILUS This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Стр. 26 - Rip looked and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain, apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name. "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself.