The Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Том 1

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C.S. Francis & Company, 1854 - Всего страниц: 312

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Стр. 208 - And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so brokenhearted, IV.
Стр. 228 - ... like a strong disease and new — What hope ? what help ? what music will undo That silence to your sense ? Not friendship's sigh, Not reason's subtle count ; not melody Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew ; Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress-trees To the clear moon ; nor yet the spheric laws Self-chanted, nor the angels' sweet All hails, Met in the smile of God : nay, none of these.
Стр. 227 - I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the mid-night air Beat upward to God's throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute Heavens.
Стр. 187 - OF all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this — • He giveth His beloved, sleep...
Стр. 210 - Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses, And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses ; That turns his fevered eyes around — " My mother ! where's my mother...
Стр. 237 - We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils Ingloriously its course, nor that the clear Strong stars without significance insphere Our habitation : we, meantime, our ills Heap up against this good and lift a cry Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast, As if ourselves were better certainly Than what we come to. Maker and High Priest, I ask thee not my joys to multiply, — Only to make me worthier of the least.
Стр. 285 - Twas 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.
Стр. 187 - What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows? — He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Стр. 287 - Beauty conquering you, — By our grand heroic guesses. Through your falsehood, at the True, — We will weep not, . . . / earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole — And Pan is dead. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth : And those debonaire romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot-course is run ! Look up, poets, to the sun ! Pan, Pan is dead.
Стр. 224 - WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right That music of my nature, day and night With dream and thought and feeling interwound, And inly answering all the senses round With octaves of a mystic depth and height Which step out grandly to the infinite From the dark edges of the sensual ground.

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