Romances, Lyrics, and Sonnets from the Poetic Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1888 - Всего страниц: 189
 

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Стр. 79 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing towards the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, in the country of the free.
Стр. 80 - Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost.
Стр. 86 - Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.
Стр. 159 - THERE is no God," the foolish saith, — But none, "There is no sorrow;" And nature oft, the cry of faith, In bitter need will borrow : Eyes, which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised ; And lips say, " God be pitiful," Who ne'er said,
Стр. 85 - Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ! And...
Стр. 143 - How he drove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath ! Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace ! Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres...
Стр. 80 - THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating In the meadows; The young birds are chirping In the nest; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; The young flowers are blowing toward the west: But the young, young children, O my brothers! They are weeping bitterly. They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In...
Стр. 35 - Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly . And I said in underbreath, — all our life is mixed with death, — And who knoweth which is best ? Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, — Toll slowly . And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, — Round our restlessness, His rest.
Стр. 58 - Like a lady's ringlets brown, Flow thy silken ears adown Either side demurely Of thy silver-suited breast Shining out from all the rest Of thy body purely. Darkly brown thy body is, Till the sunshine striking this Alchemise its dulness, When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold With a burnished fulness.
Стр. 122 - T was the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a cross ; When His brow was chill with dying, And His soul was faint with loss ; When His priestly blood dropped downward, And His kingly eyes looked throneward — Then, Pan was dead.

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