Selections from the American Poets

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Harper, 1843 - Всего страниц: 316
 

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Стр. 288 - He was chubby and plump ; a right jolly old elf; And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle , But I heard him exclaim,...
Стр. 15 - IN spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead Points out the soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands; — The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.
Стр. 160 - And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the wave his own...
Стр. 288 - As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Toys, and St.
Стр. 288 - Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
Стр. 134 - And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all thmgs else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine.
Стр. 187 - Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o'er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale, But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.
Стр. 87 - Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light,...
Стр. 254 - Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! Speak, speak! the mysteries of those living worlds Unfold! — No language? Everlasting light, And everlasting silence?— Yet the eye May read and understand. 'The hand of God Has written legibly what man may know — THE GLORY OF THE MAKER.
Стр. 201 - Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind, Yielded to thee with tears — The venerable form, the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain ; thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart.

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