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angels art thou Babie Bell beauty beneath bird blessed bliss bloom bosom Bouillabaisse breast breath bright brow calm child Childe Harold cloud crown dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth evermore eyes face fair fear feet flowers frae glory golden grace grave gray green hand happy hath hear heart heaven hope hour kiss Lars Porsena lassie leaves life's light lips live lonely look love's lyre morning ne'er never night Number o'er pain pale praise prayer rapture rest rill Robin Gray rose round Samian wine shine shore sigh silent sing skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit spring stars summer sweet tears tell tempest thee thine things Thomas Kibble Hervey thou art thought Twas voice waves weary weep wild wind wings wonder youth
第667页 - Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life...
第314页 - Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise: Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
第310页 - It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures life may perfect be.
第671页 - Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore...
第241页 - The 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 through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind...
第423页 - But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we — Of many far wiser than we — And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
第493页 - I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
第672页 - 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...
第485页 - To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life...
第282页 - 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