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angel beautiful beneath bird blue bosom bound breaking breast breath bright broken brow calm changed cheek child clear close cloud cold comes dark dead dear death deep dream earth face fair feel feet fell felt fire flowers gazed give gold gone hair half hand hast hath hear heart heaven hour human ISIDORE Italy Jules knew Lady Jane leaves lifted light lips living look look'd LORD IVON lost mind morn mother never night o'er once pass play poet poor prayer pride rest rich rose seem'd shadows silent silver sleep smile soft soul spirit star stood sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thought tree voice watch waters weary wild wind wings young
Seite 50 - Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb. My proud boy, Absalom ! B Cold is thy brow, my son ; and I am chill.
Seite 50 - Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee : How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet ' My father ! ' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom !
Seite 119 - He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — Chime of the hour or funeral knell — The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light. When the child is waked with "nine at night...
Seite 134 - Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens — around me play Colors of such divinity to-day. "Ha! bind him on his back! Look — as Prometheus in my picture here!
Seite 120 - I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray...
Seite 25 - And pass thou not between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen. Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.
Seite 133 - Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh...
Seite 121 - Play on, play on ; I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring: I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.
Seite 232 - God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo : But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.