Critical Kit-kats

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William Heinemann, 1914 - 309 страница
 

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Страница 147 - A BIRTHDAY My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot: My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me.
Страница 96 - I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of "Leaves of Grass." I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed.
Страница 83 - Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Страница 83 - Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows...
Страница 7 - And mly answering all the senses round With octaves of a mystic depth and height, Which step out grandly to the infinite From the dark edges of the sensual ground...
Страница 67 - I will say no more of Tennyson than that the more I have seen of him, the more cause I have to think him great.
Страница 52 - If there were dreams to sell What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell ; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy?
Страница 196 - The far east glows, The morning wind blows fresh and free. Should not the hour that wakes the rose Awaken also thee ? All look for thee, Love, Light, and Song, Light in the sky deep red above, Song, in the lark of pinions strong, And in my heart, true Love.
Страница 79 - ... it is not his business alone to translate language into language, but poesie into poesie; and poesie is of so subtle a spirit, that in pouring out of one language into another, it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit" be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a caput mortuum...
Страница 149 - Song Oh roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time. Oh violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time.

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