The World's Best Poetry ...J. D. Morris, 1904 |
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Page xii
... looks to see the effect ; erases ; adds ; modifies ; re- examines ; and repeats this operation over and over again . What is he doing ? He is copying a beauty which he has seen in the invisible world , and which he is attempting to ...
... looks to see the effect ; erases ; adds ; modifies ; re- examines ; and repeats this operation over and over again . What is he doing ? He is copying a beauty which he has seen in the invisible world , and which he is attempting to ...
Page xxv
... looks about him with careless curios- ity , he will enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean wave , and the architectural beauty of the island hills ; but if he turns his gaze downward and looks through the glass bottom of the boạt in ...
... looks about him with careless curios- ity , he will enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean wave , and the architectural beauty of the island hills ; but if he turns his gaze downward and looks through the glass bottom of the boạt in ...
Page 13
... looks ; thy languished grace To me , that feel the like , thy state descries . Then , even of fellowship , O Moon , tell me , Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above ...
... looks ; thy languished grace To me , that feel the like , thy state descries . Then , even of fellowship , O Moon , tell me , Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above ...
Page 18
... look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west . Many a night I saw the Pleiads , rising through the mellow shade , Glitter like a swarm of fire - flies tangled in a silver braid . Here about the beach I wandered , nourishing a youth ...
... look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west . Many a night I saw the Pleiads , rising through the mellow shade , Glitter like a swarm of fire - flies tangled in a silver braid . Here about the beach I wandered , nourishing a youth ...
Page 22
... look at was to love . Can I think of her as dead , and love her for the love she bore ? No , she never loved me truly ; love is love for- evermore . Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ; this is truth 22 POEMS OF SORROW .
... look at was to love . Can I think of her as dead , and love her for the love she bore ? No , she never loved me truly ; love is love for- evermore . Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ; this is truth 22 POEMS OF SORROW .
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Common terms and phrases
angels Annabel Lee Auf wiedersehen beauty behold beneath bird blessed bloom breast breath bright brow calm cheek child cold Cumnor dark days go dead dear death doth dream dying earth ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING eyes face fair Farewell fear flowers forever friends glory gone grave gray green grief hand hath hear heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW hope hour JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER kiss light lips live Lochaber look Lord LORD TENNYSON Lycidas Mary morning mother never nevermore night o'er old Kentucky home pain pale peace PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER Queen rest ROBERT BURNS Robin Adair rose shadow shining shore sigh silent sing sleep smile snow song sorrow soul spirit spring stars summer sweet tears tender thee There's thine THOMAS HOOD thou art thought Vere voice weary weep wild wind
Popular passages
Page 416 - Ay me, I fondly dream ! Had ye been there, for what could that have done ? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal Nature did lament...
Page 158 - My grandmamma has said — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago — That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-cornered hat And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer...
Page 416 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
Page 142 - MY HEART aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk...
Page 400 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Page 253 - Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes — Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade thro...
Page 224 - But that the dread of something after death, — The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Page 197 - OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
Page 181 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
Page 224 - The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make, With a bare bodkin?