The Diary of an Ennuyée: From the Last London EdTicknor, 1860 - 341 oldal |
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admiration afterwards amusement ancient appeared beautiful believe blue called character charm church cloud coloring contains crowded delightful dress effect enchanted England English equal expression exquisite eyes fancy feeling felt figure gallery give graceful half hand head heard heart hills hour idea imagination interest Italian Italy least leave less light lived looked lost lovely magnificent marble mind morning mountain Naples nature never night object once pain painted Palace party passed Peter's picture pleasure present reached remarked remember rest returned Rome round ruins scene seemed seen sense side soft spirit statue steps stood street struck style suffered taste temple thing thought tion to-day tomb travelling turned visited walked walls whole wish write yesterday
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270. oldal - Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?
97. oldal - ... Thus I sit — And when most quiet — cold — or silent — then Even then, I feel each word, each look, each tone! There's not an accent of that tender voice, There's not a day-beam of those sunbright eyes, Nor passing smile, nor melancholy grace, Nor thought half utter'd, feeling half...
340. oldal - Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
251. oldal - Producing change of beauty ever new. —Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light Of living nature, cannot be portrayed By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; But is the property of him alone Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, And in his mind recorded it with love!
106. oldal - And daily lose what I desire to keep : Yet rather would I instantly decline To the traditionary sympathies Of a most rustic ignorance, and take A fearful apprehension from the owl Or death-watch : and as readily rejoice, If two auspicious magpies crossed my way ; — To this would rather bend than see and hear The repetitions wearisome of sense, Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place...
264. oldal - Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines Be gracious as the music and the bloom And all the mighty ravishment of Spring.
199. oldal - Vain was the chief's the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died.
71. oldal - The great poetical genius of our own times has openly alienated himself from the land of his brothers.
284. oldal - s hand. 0 perjur'd woman ! thou dost stone my heart, And mak'st me call what I intend to do A murder, which I thought a sacrifice : 1 saw the handkerchief.
247. oldal - On a fair prospect some have looked And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.