Mercer's gardens, by the author of 'Four messengers'.

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George Bell and Sons, 1876 - 390 oldal

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79. oldal - ... atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.
181. oldal - ... of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate ; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
268. oldal - And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet...
97. oldal - And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And she forgot the blue above the trees, And she forgot the dells where waters run, And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; She had no knowledge when the day was done, And the new morn she saw not : but in peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
134. oldal - ... yawns: the mortal disappears; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; He is gone who seem'd so great. Gone; but nothing can bereave him Of the force he made his own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in State, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him.
386. oldal - And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary wood, Like a full heart having prayed. • And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly.
181. oldal - Tiere wimmern unter Trümmern. Alles rennet, rettet, flüchtet, taghell ist die Nacht gelichtet. Durch der Hände lange Kette um die Wette fliegt der Eimer; hoch im Bogen spritzen Quellen, Wasserwogen. Heulend kommt der Sturm geflogen, der die Flamme brausend sucht; prasselnd in die dürre Frucht fällt sie, in des Speichers Räume, in der Sparren dürre Bäume, und als wollte sie im Wehen mit sich fort der Erde Wucht reißen in gewaltger Flucht, wächst sie in des Himmels Höhen riesengroß!
317. oldal - Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there?
326. oldal - Noch köstlicheren Samen bergen Wir trauernd in der Erde Schoss Und hoffen, dass er aus den Särgen Erblühen soll zu schöner'm Loos. Die Lyrik Schillers ist daher als eine besondere Sphäre, die Lyrisch - Didaktische, allein und besondere zu betrachten.
386. oldal - What's the best thing in the world ? June.rose, by May.dew impearled; Sweet south wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over.plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, so, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world?— Something out of it, I think.

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