The Literary Remains of the Late Willis Gaylord Clark: Including the Ollapodiana Papers, the Spirit of Life, and a Selection from His Various Prose and Poetical Writings, Band 56;Band 276

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Burgess, Stringer & Company, 1844 - 480 Seiten
 

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Seite 92 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Seite 362 - Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
Seite 247 - But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.
Seite 15 - Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves, and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale.
Seite 236 - Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesars...
Seite 222 - Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer...
Seite 128 - Behold, yonder is that Shunammite: run now, I pray thee, to meet her, and say unto her, Is it well with thee ? is it well with thy husband ? is it well with the child ? And she answered, It is well.
Seite 130 - For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away...
Seite 14 - Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there; I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. '«) And think not much of my delay; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Seite 69 - No man can tell but he that loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges; their childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocence, their imperfections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in their persons and society.

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