Victorian Poets: Revised, and Extended, by a Supplementary Chapter, to the Fiftieth Year of the Period Under Review, Том 2

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Printed at the Riverside Press, 1887

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Страница 328 - Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!
Страница 323 - More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you - oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Страница 333 - There, in turn I stand with them and praise you — Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them, Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, Where I hush and bless myself with silence.
Страница 329 - Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle eats : Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his cup : Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, — Both gorge. Who fished the murex up ? What porridge had John Keats...
Страница 333 - God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her!
Страница 325 - And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
Страница 363 - And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm.
Страница 331 - In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others all she loves is love, Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, And fits her loosely — like an easy glove...
Страница 312 - Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walked along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
Страница 395 - If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune.

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