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第cclvi页 - Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour 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.
第cclvi页 - Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes...
第xiv页 - His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing th...
第xiv页 - There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
第xiv页 - We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May!
第xiv页 - Sometimes a-dropping from the sky, I heard the skylark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are. How they seemed to fill the sea and air, With their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song That makes the heavens be mute.
第cxliii页 - But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout," said the Baron, with an unusual glow, caught, no doubt, from the golden sunshine, imprisoned, like the student Anselmus, in the glass bottle ; " where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat ; or in the dark, gray town, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?
第xiv页 - The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
第xiv页 - Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.