The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language

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Macmillan, 1891 - 381 oldal
 

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Felhasználói ismertető  - PollyMoore3 - LibraryThing

An updated version including some more modern poems. Among many favourites, it includes Ben Jonson's “Hymn to Diana”, one of the most perfect lyrics in the English language (you can recite it to the moon, and I have been known to), and “It is not growing like a tree”. Teljes értékelés elolvasása

LibraryThing Review

Felhasználói ismertető  - chibitika - LibraryThing

English poetry from the 1500's through the 1800's. Dedicated to Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland from 1850-1892. It has end notes with lots of extra information, an index of ... Teljes értékelés elolvasása

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206. oldal - SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me...
330. oldal - O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
75. oldal - It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May; Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.
306. oldal - But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
12. oldal - Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee...
285. oldal - Will no one tell me what she sings? — Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?
278. oldal - Darkling I listen ; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I...
274. oldal - We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 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,...
12. oldal - Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; In a cowslip's bell I lie : There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly, After summer, merrily : Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
18. oldal - Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

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