The Poetic Old-world: A Little Book for TouristsH. Holt, 1908 - 513 páginas |
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Página 4
... sleep . I love , O , how I love to ride On the fierce , foaming , bursting tide , When every mad wave drowns the moon Or whistles aloft his tempest tune , And tells how goeth the world below , And why the sou'west blasts do blow . To ...
... sleep . I love , O , how I love to ride On the fierce , foaming , bursting tide , When every mad wave drowns the moon Or whistles aloft his tempest tune , And tells how goeth the world below , And why the sou'west blasts do blow . To ...
Página 7
... sleep as calm as death , We , the voyagers from afar , Lay stretched along , each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent , And with light and perfume , music , too : So the stars ...
... sleep as calm as death , We , the voyagers from afar , Lay stretched along , each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent , And with light and perfume , music , too : So the stars ...
Página 11
... Sleep with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will Heav'n , its sweet bell ringing , Call my spirit from this stormy ... sleeping , Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! When will that day - star , mildly springing , Warm our Isle ...
... Sleep with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will Heav'n , its sweet bell ringing , Call my spirit from this stormy ... sleeping , Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! When will that day - star , mildly springing , Warm our Isle ...
Página 17
... sleeps the pride of former days , So glory's thrill is o'er , And hearts that once beat high for praise , Now feel that pulse no more . No more , to chiefs and ladies bright , The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone , that breaks at ...
... sleeps the pride of former days , So glory's thrill is o'er , And hearts that once beat high for praise , Now feel that pulse no more . No more , to chiefs and ladies bright , The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone , that breaks at ...
Página 23
... one , an English home- gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures , dewy trees , Softer than sleep - all things in order stored , A haunt of ancient Peace . Alfred Tennyson . From An Evening Walk ( English Lakes ) FAR AR ENGLAND.
... one , an English home- gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures , dewy trees , Softer than sleep - all things in order stored , A haunt of ancient Peace . Alfred Tennyson . From An Evening Walk ( English Lakes ) FAR AR ENGLAND.
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Términos y frases comunes
Alfred Tennyson beauty bells beneath Bingen blue Bouillabaisse breast breath bright brow Bruges calm Camelot Carcassonne castle Church cried dark dead dear deep dream earth eyes fair flowers Francesco Petrarca gazed German's fatherland Gilpin gleam golden grave gray green hand hath head hear heard heart heaven Heinrich Heine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow hills hour Ist's king Lady of Shalott Lake land light live look Lord Lord Byron Matthew Arnold mighty morning mountain never night o'er once pass pines rats Rhine river Robert Southey rocks round Rüdesheim Saint shadow shine shore silent sing sleep smile song soul sound stone stood stream street sweet tell thee Thomas Bailey Aldrich thou thought thro tout tower town trees Twas Vaucluse voice walls waters waves wild William Wordsworth wind wonder woods youth δὲ ἐν καὶ
Pasajes populares
Página 326 - I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; A palace and a prison on each hand : I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles...
Página 246 - Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity ! 0 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 1 worshipped the Invisible alone.
Página 475 - Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations — all were his ! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set, where were they?
Página 102 - Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance — If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence...
Página 248 - Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God...
Página 79 - THE sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Página 54 - THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, •*- The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds...
Página 79 - tis, to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles : Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon...
Página 472 - Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
Página 18 - I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made ; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.