First Book of London Visions, Volumes 1-2

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E. Mathews, 1896 - Poetry - 32 pages
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Page 10 - THE LITTLE DANCERS LONELY, save for a few faint stars, the sky Dreams ; and lonely, below, the little street Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat ; And all is dark, save where come flooding rays From a tavern window : there, to the brisk measure Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, Two children, all alone and no one by, Holding their tattered frocks...
Page 28 - In- wetness mirrored far, Retreating lamps outshine the lingering light. Hazily blue the air, heavy with dews The wind; and before me the cries and the crowd, And the sleepless murmur of wheels; not loud, For a magical softness all imbrues. The softness estranges my sense: I see and I hear, But know 'tis a vision intangible, shapes that seem. All is unreal; the sound of the falling of feet, Coming figures, and far-off hum of the street; A dream, the gliding hurry, the endless lights, Houses and sky,...
Page 10 - Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky Dreams ; and lonely, below, the little street Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; And all is dark, save where come flooding rays From a tavern-window; there, to the brisk measure Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, Two children, all alone and no one by, Holding their tattered frocks, thro...
Page 13 - Steerest the widow's ship of heavy cares; And on light spirits of lovers, radiant grown, Droppest an unimaginable balm. Yet me to-night thy peace rejoices less Than this warm human scene, that of rude earth Pleasantly savours, nor dissembles mirth, Nor grief nor passion: sweet to me this press Of life unnumbered, where if hard distress Be tyrant, hunger is not fed Nor misery pensioned with the ill-tasting bread Of pity; but such help as earth ordains Betwixt her creatures, bound in common pains,...
Page 9 - ... when his fire, though it burns dimly, burns dimly only because of the richness of the sacred glass through which we watch it glow ; when there is no paleness in his poetry, no morning light, but the waning splendor of a spent sun in the afterglow. How he loves the time between sun-set and day's end ! Come let us forth and wander the rich, the murmuring night ! The sky-blue dusk of summer trembles above the street And how the night itself!
Page 8 - They trembled toward me with living breath. 0 none that loved me is dead, I knew, And each is true. Now forth to the world attended By the spirits of that hour, 1 bear within me a charm secure As the scent asleep in a flower.
Page 32 - She that on love defeated builds her throne, The spoiler strong, sanguine with our despairs, She that the traitor in us holds in fee, Rich with our...
Page 9 - The full streets beckon : Come, for toil has burst his bars, And idle eyes rejoice, and feet unhasting go.

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