Silvio Bartholi Painter: A Story of Siena

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T. Fisher Unwin, 1896 - 281页
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第264页 - I have nought that is fair, saith he : Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. My Lord has need of these flowerets gay, The Reaper said, and smiled : Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child.
第30页 - Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
第138页 - All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
第74页 - Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene, — one step enough for me.
第274页 - Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe — " Forever — never ! Never — forever...
第88页 - Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.
第264页 - The Reaper said, and smiled ; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.
第9页 - Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Passion is But something suffered, after all. While art Sets action on the top of suffering: The artist's part is both to be and do, Transfixing with a special, central power The flat experience of the common man, And turning outward, with a sudden wrench, Half agony, half ecstasy, the thing He feels the inmost: never felt the less Because he sings it.
第90页 - My will the enemy held, and thence had made a chain for me, and bound me. For of a froward will, was a lust made; and a lust served, became custom; and custom not resisted, became necessity. By which links, as it were, joined together (whence I called it a chain) a hard bondage held me enthralled.
第93页 - Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.

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