The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table: Every Man His Own Boswell

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Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1890 - Всего страниц: 271
 

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Стр. 116 - 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. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through...
Стр. 311 - Hahnsum kerridge' they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came: — Running as usual ; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Стр. 115 - 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. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl, Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell...
Стр. 115 - 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. 312 - The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the -Moses - was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill.
Стр. 372 - O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, — If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
Стр. 110 - I find the great thing in this world is, not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving.
Стр. 328 - An easy gait — two, forty-five — Suits me ; I do not care; — Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt, Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four, — I love so much their style and tone, — One Turner...
Стр. 311 - First of November, the Earthquake-day. There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn'ta chance for one to start...
Стр. 310 - Thorough-brace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he 'put her through.

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