The New Monthly Belle Assemblée, 17. kötet

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Joseph Rogerson
 

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91. oldal - The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
188. oldal - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,— when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
353. oldal - By our own spirits are we deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.
147. oldal - The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim : And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he.
288. oldal - ... were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together, but let us be very strange and well bred.
350. oldal - Many people suppose that poetry is something to be found only in books, contained in lines of ten syllables, with like endings: but wherever there is a sense of beauty, or power, or harmony, as in the motion of a wave of the sea, in the growth of a flower that " spreads its sweet leaves to the air, and dedicates its beauty to the sun," — there is poetry in its birth.
63. oldal - THE gondola glides — Like a spirit of night, — O'er the slumbering tides, In the calm moonlight! The star of the north Shows her golden eye, — But a brighter looks forth From yon lattice, on high ! Her taper is out, And the silver beam Floats the maiden about, Like a beautiful dream ! And the beat of her heart Makes her tremble all o'er, — And she lists, with a start, To the dash of the oar ! But the moments are past, And her fears are at rest, And her lover, at last, Holds her clasped to...
350. oldal - The poetical impression of any object is that uneasy, exquisite sense of beauty or power that cannot be contained within itself...
152. oldal - When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
104. oldal - Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need — The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

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