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angels answer beauty beloved beneath beside bird bless break breath bring brow calm child close cloud cold crown dark dead dear death deep dream drop earth evermore eyes face fair fall feel feet flowers glory God's grave green grow hand head hear heart heaven hills holy hope human Italy keep kiss leave lift light lips live look mother move nature never once pale Pan is dead pass poet praise pure rest rose round seemed seen shadow shining sigh sight silence sing sleep smile song soul sound speak spirit stand stars strong sweet tears thee thine things thou thou art thought touch trees turned VIII voice weep wind young
Стр. 306 - Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints.
Стр. 288 - Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore — Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double.
Стр. 296 - When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curved point, — what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented ? Think. In mounting higher, The angels would press on us and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Beloved, — where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits,...
Стр. 11 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Стр. 219 - Who giveth His beloved sleep. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one most loving of you all, Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ! He giveth His beloved sleep.
Стр. 16 - How long,' they say, 'how long, O cruel nation. Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, 0 gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath.
Стр. 222 - With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him, Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him ; But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him, And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences: The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber.
Стр. 218 - Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again. Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Стр. 13 - we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping; We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow; For all day we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, under-ground; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In...
Стр. 112 - WHEN some beloved voice that was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence against which you dare not cry, Aches round you like a strong disease and new — What hope ? what help ? what music will undo That silence to your sense ? Not friendship's sigh, Not reason's subtle count. Not melody Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew. Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales, Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress-trees To the clear moon ! nor yet the spheric laws Self-chanted,...