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426. oldal - For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem, — a thought so passionate and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an animal it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing.
308. oldal - O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.
79. oldal - Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.
310. oldal - These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name — The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations, far away, As if the Ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless forever.
229. oldal - Of this great consummation; and, by words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep Of death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures...
308. oldal - The red-bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead, And fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim.
308. oldal - The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead ; — Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home ; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come.
310. oldal - No — they are all unchained again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges.
80. oldal - In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.