The Poetical Works of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats: Complete in One Volume |
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22. oldal
Speak ! from thy storm - black Heaven , O speak aloud ! And on the darkling foe I
mark'd Ambition in his war - array ! Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain
cloud ! I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry O dart the flash ! O rise and
deal ...
Speak ! from thy storm - black Heaven , O speak aloud ! And on the darkling foe I
mark'd Ambition in his war - array ! Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain
cloud ! I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry O dart the flash ! O rise and
deal ...
38. oldal
On rose - leaf beds , pampering the coward heart For never guiltless may I speak
of him , With feelings all too delicate for use ? The Incomprehensible ! save when
with awe I praise him , and with Faith that inly feels ; Sweet is the tear that from ...
On rose - leaf beds , pampering the coward heart For never guiltless may I speak
of him , With feelings all too delicate for use ? The Incomprehensible ! save when
with awe I praise him , and with Faith that inly feels ; Sweet is the tear that from ...
61. oldal
And the good south - wind still blew And every tongue , through utter behind ,
drought , But no sweet bird did follow , Was wither'd at the root ; Nor any day for
food or play We could not speak , no more than if Came to the mariner's hollo !
And the good south - wind still blew And every tongue , through utter behind ,
drought , But no sweet bird did follow , Was wither'd at the root ; Nor any day for
food or play We could not speak , no more than if Came to the mariner's hollo !
67. oldal
I have only to add that the metre of the Christabel is not , properly speaking ,
irregular , though it may seem so from its ... and sweet :Have pity on my sore
distress , I scarce can speak for weariness : Stretch forth thy hand , and have no
fear !
I have only to add that the metre of the Christabel is not , properly speaking ,
irregular , though it may seem so from its ... and sweet :Have pity on my sore
distress , I scarce can speak for weariness : Stretch forth thy hand , and have no
fear !
68. oldal
Alas , alas ! said Geraldine , I cannot speak for weariness . So free from danger ,
free from fear , They cross'd the court : right glad they were . And will your mother
pity me , Who am a maiden most forlorn ? Christabel answer'd - Woe is me !
Alas , alas ! said Geraldine , I cannot speak for weariness . So free from danger ,
free from fear , They cross'd the court : right glad they were . And will your mother
pity me , Who am a maiden most forlorn ? Christabel answer'd - Woe is me !
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The Poetical Works of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats: Complete in One Volume Samuel Taylor Coleridge Nincs elérhető előnézet - 2012 |
Gyakori szavak és kifejezések
arms beautiful beneath blood breath bright BUTLER calm child clouds cold comes COUNTESS dare dark dead dear death deep dream earth Enter eyes fair faith fall father fear feel fire flowers follow gentle give green hand hast hath head hear heard heart Heaven hope hour human lady leaves light lips living look Lord mind moon morning mother mountains move nature never night o'er OCTAVIO once pain pale pass past peace poor rest round SCENE shadow shape silent sleep smile soon soul sound speak spirit stand stars stood strange stream sweet tears tell TERTSKY thee thine things thou thought truth voice WALLENSTEIN wandering waves wide wild wind wings young youth
Népszerű szakaszok
210. oldal - I bear light shades for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again 1 dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
212. oldal - Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then — as I am listening now.
62. oldal - But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made ; Its path was not upon the sea In ripple or in shade.
211. oldal - I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below.
65. oldal - There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek — There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
211. oldal - That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer...
205. oldal - So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves...
205. oldal - ODE TO THE WEST WIND O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow...
212. oldal - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
211. oldal - Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea...