Comentarios de la gente - Escribir un comentario
No encontramos ningún comentario en los lugares habituales.
Artemidora ballads beauty beneath bird blank verse breast breath bright brow Byron calm Charles Lamb Childe Harold cloud cold Coleridge County Guy DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI dark dead dear death deep delight doth dream earth Edward Dowden Emily Bronte eyes face fair fear feel flowers gaze gentle grave green hand happy Hartley Coleridge hast hath hear heard heart heaven hill hope hour human John Keats Keats lady light live look Lyrical Ballads mind moon mortal mountains nature never night o'er passion poems poet poetic poetry River Duddon rose round Samian wine seems shade shadow Shelley sigh silent sing sleep smile song sonnets sorrow soul spirit stars stood stream sweet tears thee thine things thou art thought trees truth Twas verse voice wandering waves weary wild wind wings Wordsworth youth
Página 280 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll [ Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy...
Página 28 - SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me...
Página 405 - The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given. The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ! Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
Página 447 - Fade, far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
Página 453 - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease ; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Página 320 - O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
Página 281 - Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Página 373 - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth...
Página 449 - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth...
Página 449 - Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.