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" Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek... "
Spirit of the English Magazines - Page 480
1824
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Eclectic Magazine: Foreign Literature, Volume 31

John Holmes Agnew, Walter Hilliard Bidwell - 1854
...away this life of care, Which I have borne, and still must bear, Till death like sleep might seize ځA T v 8 z 3 n 6 Y 0K i 2 Ǝ Z u7 Ҧ...j E k K!% Y чY ++H[z 3( є ( Q o ^ T 9 !" Too beautiful to laugh at, however empty and sentimental. True; but why beautiful? Because there...
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Putnam's Magazine: Original Papers on Literature, Science, Art, and National ...

1854
...must hear, Till death, like deep, might Meal on uic, And I uiiffht feel in the warm air My cheek prow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony." But the ground was very damp, the rain was pelting, and the air quite cold, and I soon awoke again...
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The Literary Life and Correspondence of the Countess of Blessington, Volume 2

Richard Robert Madden - 1855
...a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and still must bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in...sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony." The second Mrs. Shelley was the daughter of William Godwin, by his union with Mary Woolstonceraft,...
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Arvon; or The trials, Volume 1; Volume 243

Charles Mitchell Charles - 1855
...like a tired child And weep away this life of care, Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till Death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel, in...sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Shelley. WHILE Sir Herve de Leon was reading despatches from the enemy — his eye eager, his heart...
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The Literary Life and Correspondence of the Countess of Blessington

Richard Robert Madden - 1855
...like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in...sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony." In two other poems of his, there are likewise passages bearing most singularly on that kind of death,...
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The Knickerbocker: Or, New-York Monthly Magazine, Volume 46

Charles Fenno Hoffman, Timothy Flint, Lewis Gaylord Clark, Kinahan Cornwallis, John Holmes Agnew - 1855
...and still in '/*' bear, ^ TiU death-lite Леер might eteal on me, AnA Imigktftd intlie warm air 'Some might lament that I were cold, As I when this...too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan ; Thev might lament ; for I am one Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when...
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The Literary Life and Correspondence of the Countess of Blessington, Volume 2

Richard Robert Madden - 1855
...the life of care Which I have borne, and still must bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on ma, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold,...sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony." The second Mrs. Shelley was the daughter of William Godwin, by his union with Mary Woolstonceraft,...
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The Poets of the Nineteenth Century, Volume 1808

Robert Aris Willmott - 1857 - 397 pages
...bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And 1 might feel in the warm air My cheek grow wet, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I was cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with...
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The Poets of the Nineteenth Century, Volume 1808

Robert Aris Willmott - 1857 - 397 pages
...sleep, might steal on me, And 1 might feel in the warm air My cheek grow wet, aud hear the sea Hrcathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I was cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with...
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Titan, Volume 27

1858
...'most musical, most melancholy,' where he wishes he could lie down like a tired child, ' Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel, in the warm air, My cheek grow cold, and hear the aea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.' Poor Shelley ! how glorious a spirit dwelt in him...
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