Selection from the Southern Poets, Selected and Ed. by William Lander Weber

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William Lander Weber
Macmillan, 1901 - 221 oldal
 

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17. oldal - Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted...
31. oldal - All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells!
31. oldal - In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people - ah, the people They that dwell up in the steeple...
11. oldal - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, "weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door : Only this and nothing more.
94. oldal - O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
27. oldal - The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me Yes! that was the reason (as all men know. In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night. Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
95. oldal - Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave ; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
19. oldal - And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door...
22. oldal - The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere — The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year...
97. oldal - Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

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