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" All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom... "
The Poets and Poetry of America - Страница 172
по Rufus Wilmot Griswold - 1855 - 622 страници
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Best Remembered Poems

Martin Gardner - 1992 - 210 страници
...the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the...slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon and hears...
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The Columbia Dictionary of Quotations

Robert Andrews - 1993 - 1092 страници
...pompous in the grave. SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-82). English doctor, author. Urn Burial, ch. 5(1658). 6 ined. bk. 4. 1 1 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1 794-1878). US poet, editor. Г/ijnjiopsís, in North American Review (Cedar...
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The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry

Jay Parini, Axinn Professor of English Jay Parini - 1995 - 757 страници
...to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years...
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The New England Historical and Genealogical Register,: Volume 33 1879

New England Historic Genealogical Society Staff - 1995 - 468 страници
...them and receive instruction, rebuild those walls, and exterminate the nettles and the thorns ! If, " All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom," then the simple rule of « the majority " would demand that the homes of the dead be made beautiful...
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Nineteenth-century American Poetry

William C. Spengemann, Jessica F. Roberts - 1996 - 447 страници
...the tribes 50 That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls...Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there: 55 And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their...
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First Loves: Poets Introduce the Essential Poems That Captivated and ...

Carmela Ciuraru - 2001 - 268 страници
...the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the...wings Of morning — and the Barcan desert pierce, Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there, And...
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Favorite American Poems

Paul Negri - 2002 - 144 страници
...the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the...lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there, And millions in those...
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The New Anthology of American Poetry: Traditions and Revolutions, Beginnings ...

Steven Gould Axelrod, Camille Roman, Thomas J. Travisano - 2003 - 736 страници
...the tribes That slumber in its bosom. —Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan6 wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls...first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In...
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The New Anthology of American Poetry: Traditions and Revolutions, Beginnings ...

Steven Gould Axelrod, Camille Roman, Thomas J. Travisano - 2003 - 736 страници
...the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the...slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan6 wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon,7 and...
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The Jeffersonian Transformation: Passages from the "History"

Henry Adams - 2007 - 214 страници
...the infinite host of heaven Are glowing on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the...slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Borean desert pierce; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods That veil Oregan, where he hears no sound...
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