Garden Walks with the Poets

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G.P. Putman, 1852 - 340页
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第166页 - Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes, — So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name.
第126页 - And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, •An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers...
第239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.
第40页 - Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness: The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.
第165页 - Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial, loved return ! For when thy folding star — arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant hours, and elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge. And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, Or find some ruin...
第127页 - The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best...
第18页 - SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld ; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld.
第252页 - Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night : — Springing in valleys green and low. And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by...
第176页 - And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath, But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.
第176页 - The forward violet thus did I chide : Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

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