Idylls of the Field

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E. Stock, 1889 - 182 страници
 

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Страница 73 - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Страница 77 - There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro...
Страница 113 - Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long ! The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom> And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown— But all is not thine own.
Страница 17 - THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
Страница 81 - To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy ; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Страница 144 - ... of those apples, and haveinge a bill with one beake wrythinge over the other, which would presently bore a greate hole in the apple, and make way to the kernells ; they were of the bignesse of a Bullfinch, the henne right like the henne of the Bullfinch in coulour ; the cocke a very glorious bird, in a manner al redde or yellowe on the brest, backe, and head.
Страница 63 - We will return no more"; And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.
Страница 177 - Home1' and other books. Not the least important feature of these studies is to create a love for all the lower forms of life by showing their usefulness in one particular or another. A NEW LIBRARY EDITION. The House of the Wolfings. A Tale of the House of the Wolfings and all the Kindreds of the Mark, written in prose and in verse, by WILLIAM MORRIS, author of "The Earthly Paradise.
Страница 120 - Hills ; and, as Collinson very justly remarks, presenting one of the most striking scenes of the kind, in Great Britain. " Here indeed, Nature, working with a gigantic hand, has displayed a scene of no common grandeur. In one of those moments, when she convulsed the world with the throes of an earthquake, she burst asunder the rocky ribs of Mendip, and tore a chasm across its diameter, of more than a mile in length.

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