Sir Walter Raleigh and His Time, with Other Papers

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Ticknor and Fields, 1859 - 461 oldal
 

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111. oldal - Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying...
187. oldal - Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
183. oldal - Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn...
376. oldal - Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last— far off— at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream ; but what am I ? An infant crying in the night ; An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.
183. oldal - Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be...
90. oldal - Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
182. oldal - Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro...
181. oldal - He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!
183. oldal - In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning. The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over...
103. oldal - I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please : What death? Bos. Strangling; here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them: The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Would do as much as they do.

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