Notes to Palgrave's Golden treasury of songs & lyrics, Books 1-4 (Google eBook)

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Macmillan & co., 1904 - 250 pages
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Page 269 - 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.
Page 89 - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.
Page 79 - You are my true and honourable wife; As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
Page 109 - Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth ? Declare, if thou hast understanding.
Page 145 - Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished! Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes. With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell.
Page 203 - Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow, And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
Page 217 - At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the...
Page 120 - Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a : A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Page 65 - It may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.
Page 105 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chaunt it : it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.

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