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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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The Giant Book of Poetry

William Roetzheim - 2006 - 748 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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In Search of the Hidden Treasure

George Rapanos - 2006 - 296 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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American Elegy: The Poetry of Mourning from the Puritans to Whitman

Max Cavitch - 352 страници
...dead, in the stipulated absence of the living, populate a kind of countersocial vision, a necrotopia: 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. (1:19) Losing oneself in the unpopulated wilderness,...
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