Our Poetical Favorites: A Selection from the Best Minor Poems of the English Language
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ALFRED TENNYSON angels auf wiedersehen BAYARD TAYLOR beauty bells beneath bird blessed bosom breast breath bright brow cheek cloud cold dark dead dear death deep doth dream e'en earth evermore fair fear feel feet flowers forever FRANCES ANNE KEMBle gaze gleam glory glow golden grave grief hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hope hour JEAN INGELOW land life's light lips live LOCKSLEY HALL look Lord LORD BYRON Lycidas Maud Maud Muller morn mountain never night o'er PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY prayer rest RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES Ring river rose round shadow shine shore sigh silent sing skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit stars storm sweet Sweetest eyes tears tender thee thine THOMAS HOOD thou art thought voice wandering watch wave weary weep wild WILLIAM WORDSWORTH winds wither youth
Page 57 - Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet do not grieve: She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Page 57 - THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit ? ? What struggle to escape ? What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy...
Page 262 - SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly...
Page 247 - The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, . Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, — To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Page 58 - 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.
Page 144 - For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'da ghastly dew From the nations...
Page 265 - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days: But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life.
Page 255 - Nevermore!" Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore!
Page 57 - Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede...
Page 265 - He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings, That blows from off each beaked promontory. They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.