The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell LowellHoughton, Mifflin, 1897 - 492 страница |
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Страница xvi
... sound in its judgment , that whether he was engaged in determining a reading in an Elizabethan dramatist or in deciding to which country an Irish colossus belonged , he was bringing his whole nature to the bench . No one can read ...
... sound in its judgment , that whether he was engaged in determining a reading in an Elizabethan dramatist or in deciding to which country an Irish colossus belonged , he was bringing his whole nature to the bench . No one can read ...
Страница 3
... sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone , That murmurs over the weary sea , And seems to sing from ... sound , The singing waves slide up the strand , And there , where the smooth , wet pebbles be , The waters gurgle ...
... sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone , That murmurs over the weary sea , And seems to sing from ... sound , The singing waves slide up the strand , And there , where the smooth , wet pebbles be , The waters gurgle ...
Страница 5
... sound , The stars are hid and the night is drear , The heart of silence throbs in thine ear , In thy chamber thou sittest alone , Alone , alone , ah woe ! alone ! The world is happy , the world is wide , Kind hearts are beating on every ...
... sound , The stars are hid and the night is drear , The heart of silence throbs in thine ear , In thy chamber thou sittest alone , Alone , alone , ah woe ! alone ! The world is happy , the world is wide , Kind hearts are beating on every ...
Страница 13
... sound God's sea with earthly plummet , And find a bottom still of worthless clay ; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working , Knowing that one sure wind blows on above , And sees , beneath the foulest faces lurking , One God ...
... sound God's sea with earthly plummet , And find a bottom still of worthless clay ; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working , Knowing that one sure wind blows on above , And sees , beneath the foulest faces lurking , One God ...
Страница 17
... sounds are out upon the breeze , And the leaves shiver in the trees , And then thou comest , Rosaline ! I seem to hear the mourners go , With long black garments trailing slow , And plumes anodding to and fro , As once I heard them ...
... sounds are out upon the breeze , And the leaves shiver in the trees , And then thou comest , Rosaline ! I seem to hear the mourners go , With long black garments trailing slow , And plumes anodding to and fro , As once I heard them ...
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afore agin ain't aint airth Appledore arter ATLANTIC MONTHLY Auf wiedersehen beauty bein bobolink brain Clotho dark dear deep divine doth dream ears earth eyes faith fancy feel feet feller folks fust give God's gret hand hath hear heart heaven heerd hope idees Jaalam ketch kind larn leaves letter life's light lives look Lowell mind Muse nater nature neath never night nothin o'er ollers once poem poet poor rhyme round Sawin sech seems silent sing Sir Launfal slavery song Sonnet soul spiles spirit sunshine sure sweet tell thee there's thet thet's thine things thou thought thout thru tion tree truth turn twixt verse Vinland warn't Whig Wilbur wind wonder word wun't Yankee
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Страница 69 - Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,— Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.
Страница 69 - Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right.1 And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.
Страница xvi - There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching...
Страница 302 - I could not sleep for the cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold. My beautiful castles in Spain! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright For the one that is mine no more.
Страница 108 - OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument « Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.
Страница 144 - Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well, Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain, That only the finest and clearest remain, Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving A name either English or Yankee, — just Irving.
Страница 46 - They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.
Страница 113 - The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, In whatso we share with another's need; Not what we give, but what we share, ! For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.
Страница 111 - Like herds of startled deer. But the wind without was eager and sharp, Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was " Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless...
Страница 111 - With lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer.