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12 pages auſſi beau Bluet c'eſt Charles Church Comte Court death Dieu donne doth earth écrits eſcus eſt eyes face faict feet firſt form fortune French give good great hand hath have heart hommes imprimer India John jour King l'auteur l'exil lettres life light Livre London long Lord love made main make Marquis de Sy ment Moan monde Monſignor mort moſt n'eſt never note ouvrage pain place pluſieurs poems porte Poupar power première Prince religion ſans Saturn ſaw ſee ſes ſhe ſhould ſome ſon ſont ſous ſtill ſuch ſur terre their there theſe they things thoſe thou thought time tion titre traduction traité trouve upon voice volume were whoſe words work world years
18. oldal - As when, upon a tranced summer-night, Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, Save from one gradual solitary gust Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, As if the ebbing air had but one wave : So came these words and went ; the while in tears She...
20. oldal - Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face; Look up, and let me see our doom in it; Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, Naked and bare of its great diadem, Peers like the front of Saturn.
10. oldal - None can usurp this height,' returned that shade, 'But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest. All else who find a haven in the world, Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days, If by a chance into this fane they come, Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.
12. oldal - And yet I had a terror of her robes, And chiefly of the veils that from her brow Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries, That made my heart too small to hold its blood.
10. oldal - And thou art here, for thou art less than they. What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself: think of the earth; What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee?
5. oldal - And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, " Thou art no Poet — may'st not tell thy dreams ?" Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
27. oldal - By absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her, Where none can watch her, In some close corner of my brain; There I embrace and kiss her, And so I both enjoy and miss her.
20. oldal - How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth, While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp? But it is so; and I am smother'd up, And buried from all godlike exercise Of influence benign on planets pale, Of admonitions to the winds and seas, Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, And all those acts which Deity supreme Doth ease its heart of love in.
10. oldal - Who love their fellows even to the death, Who feel the giant agony of the world, And more, like slaves to poor humanity, Labour for mortal good? I sure should see Other men here, but I am here alone.
16. oldal - One hand she press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain: The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn...