Poet Lore, Volume 5

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Writer's Center, 1893

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Page 358 - How charming is divine Philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns.
Page 426 - By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their' vile trash By any indirection.
Page 625 - How ill this taper burns ! Ha ! who comes here ? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any thing ? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare ? Speak to me what thou art.
Page 21 - No, wench : it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses As we have ; such. This gallant, which thou seest...
Page 483 - Thames' waters flow. O what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among. Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor; Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
Page 579 - He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.
Page 579 - He is made one with Nature. There is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird. He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone ; Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own, Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
Page 194 - How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thy hand...
Page 36 - Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Page 262 - Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive : Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. n. Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, Turn of head ? Strange ! that very way Love begun : I as little understand Love's decay.

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