Book Lovers' Verse: Being Songs of Books and Bookmen Compiled from English and American AuthorsBowen-Merrill Company, 1899 - 223 страница |
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Book Lovers' Verse - Being Songs of Books and Bookmen Compiled from English ... Howard Shaw Ruddy Приказ није доступан - 2010 |
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A. C. SWINBURNE Annetta BALLADE bard Barnes the Cook Betty Barnes Bibliomaniac binding Boccaccio book I've read Bookman's books are best books I love Books MY BOOKS Bookworm brain breath CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS CHORUS Omar Khayyám CLINTON SCOLLARD dead dear doth dreams dust Elzevirs EUGENE FIELD extra-illustrate eyes fair fire folios friends gentleman deceased gold golden hand hear heart Horace IRVING BROWNE JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS JOHN TODHUNTER Lamb leaf leaves Library little book live look love of maids Mulleary and Go-ethe Muses never nooks o'er old books old IZAAK's Omar Khayyám perchance pleasant world Poems poets praise precious printed quaint rare RICHARD LE GALLIENNE round Saints Shakespeare shelf shelves shine silent sing smile song soul spirit stand sweet thee thou thought thy mind treasures truth vellum verse volume WILLIAM WORDSWORTH wine word world of books
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Страница 136 - Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much ; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled.
Страница 170 - Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore: When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
Страница 77 - Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Bound these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
Страница 84 - WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, Shall live the name of Walton : Sage benign ! Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort To reverend watching of each still report That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Страница 169 - Speak low, tread softly through these halls ; Here genius lives enshrined, Here reign, in silent majesty, The monarchs of the mind. A mighty spirit-host they come From every age and clime ; Above the buried wrecks of years They breast the tide of Time.
Страница 65 - As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he was not right fat, I undertake ; But loked holwe, and therto soberly.
Страница 35 - AT evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink...
Страница 7 - SADLY as some old mediseval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, So I behold these books upon their shelf, My ornaments and arms of other days...
Страница 51 - So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him, — Go, read that virile poem, — It is No. 25. He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl...
Страница viii - Oh for a booke and a shadie nooke, Eyther in doore or out ; With the grene leaves whispering overhead Or the streete cryes all about. Where I maie reade all at my ease, Both of the newe and old ; For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke, Is better to me than golde.