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Autres éditions - Tout afficher
appearance beauty beneath bird born breath bright brow calm child clouds cold dark dead dear death deep delight dream early earth face fair fall fame feel flowers friends genius gentle give gone grace grave green hand happy hath head hear heard heart heaven hills hope hour human Italy kind leaves light live lonely look Lord mind morning mountains nature never night o'er once pain pale pass past pleasure poems Poet poetry produced published received rest rose round sigh silent sing sleep smile soft song soon soul sound spirit spring star stream summer sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thought true turn voice waves weep wild wind writings young youth
Page 11 - MILTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Page 8 - 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.
Page 10 - IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration...
Page 5 - Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel - I feel it all.
Page 29 - Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, ' 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'Who fell in the great victory.
Page 123 - Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: — do I wake or sleep?
Page 123 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket...
Page 8 - What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind...