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Страница 85 - With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, •With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win...
Страница 317 - With braunches broad dispredd and body great, Clothed with leaves, that none the wood mote see, And loaden all with fruit as thick as it might bee.
Страница 304 - Ye mists and exhalations that now rise From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great Author rise, Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
Страница 332 - There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say not, It is enough : The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.
Страница 78 - They shall not build, and another inhabit; they shall not plant, and another eat: for as the days of a tree are the days of my people, and mine elect shall long enjoy the work of their hands.
Страница 357 - Such a nation might truly say to corruption, thou art my father, and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister.
Страница 85 - Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind...
Страница 195 - That peace must come in its own time; as the waters settle themselves into clearness as well as quietness ; you can no more filter your mind into purity than you can compress it into calmness; you must keep it pure, if you would have it pure ; and throw no stones into it, if you would have it quiet.
Страница 236 - I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now. Howbeit when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he shall guide you into all the truth.
Страница 103 - ... trembling stones, to teach them rest. No words, that I know of, will say what these mosses are. None are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green, — -the starred divisions of rubied bloom, finefilmed, as if the Rock Spirits could spin porphyry as we do glass, — the traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses...

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