Caliban by the Yellow Sands

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Doubleday, Page, 1916 - 223 pages
 

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Page 41 - Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings : at the helm A seeming mermaid steers : the silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her ; and Antony, Enthroned i...
Page 111 - SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day.
Page 138 - And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding— which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!
Page 66 - How ill this taper burns ! Ha ! who comes here ? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any thing ? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare ? Speak to me what thou art.
Page 86 - What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous; and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Page 137 - Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; Or close the wall up with our English dead ! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility : But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger...
Page 102 - How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines...
Page 41 - Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It...
Page 87 - Why, what should be the fear ? I do not set my life at a pin's fee ; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself ? It waves me forth again : I'll follow it.
Page 41 - The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them...

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