The Blue Poetry BookAndrew Lang Longmans, Green and Company, 1891 - 351 |
Inne wydania - Wyświetl wszystko
Kluczowe wyrazy i wyrażenia
Allen-a-Dale Annabel Lee beneath bird blood bold bower brave bonny lasse breast breath bright Brignall brow Buccleuch Cherry Ripe Christabel Christe receive thye cloud Coldinghame cried Cumnor dark dead dear deep doth dream eyes fair fear fire flowers frae gallant green gude hair hand hast hath Hazeldean hear heard heart heaven helmet of Navarre Henry of Navarre hill holy King Kinmont Kinmont Willie lady land lang lang light lonely look look'd Lord Scroope loud Lycidas maid maiden Mary Ambree merry moon morn ne'er never night o'er Otterbourne receive thye saule rose round sails ship sigh sing Sir Hugh Sir Patrick Spens skies sleep smile song sorrow soul sound spake stood sweet ta'en tears thee thine top-mast Twas vale voice waves weary Wedding-Guest weep wild Willie wind wings wood Yarrow
Popularne fragmenty
Strona 102 - GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
Strona 45 - At length, upon the harp, with glee, Mingled with arch simplicity, A soft, yet lively, air she rung, While thus the wily lady sung : LOCHINVAR. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
Strona 205 - We look before and after And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound — Better than all treasures That in books are found — Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain...
Strona 303 - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
Strona 229 - The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.
Strona 192 - The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Strona 181 - Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; In a cowslip's bell I lie : There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly, After summer, merrily : Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Strona 301 - ... shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How...
Strona 198 - TO HELEN. Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.
Strona 37 - His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.