Notes from a Diary, Kept Chiefly in Southern India, 1881-1886, Том 1

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Страница 271 - 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.
Страница 224 - ST. AGNES' Eve! — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold...
Страница 109 - THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he, "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Страница 169 - ... sweetest offices of grace. They will not be gathered, like the flowers, for chaplet or love-token ; but of these the wild bird will make its nest, and the wearied child his pillow. And, as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift to us. When all other service is vain, from plant and tree, the soft mosses and gray lichen take up their watch by the headstone.
Страница 353 - Ch' io ho veduto tutto il verno prima II prun mostrarsi rigido e feroce, Poscia portar la rosa in su la cima; E legno vidi già dritto e veloce Correr lo mar per tutto suo cammino, Perire al fine all
Страница 357 - Through mere good fortune took a different course. The flock grew calm again ; and I, the road Following, that led me to my own abode, Much...
Страница 265 - For I remember stopping by the way To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all-obliterated Tongue It murmur'd — "Gently, Brother, gently, pray!
Страница 286 - Who could resist the charm of that spiritual apparition, gliding in the dim afternoon light through the aisles of St. Mary's, rising into the pulpit, and then, in the most entrancing of voices, breaking the silence with words and thoughts which were a religious music, - subtle, sweet, mournful?
Страница 170 - When time shall turn those amber locks to gray, My verse again shall gild and make them gay, And trick them up in knotted curls anew, And to thy autumn give a summer's hue; That sacred power that in my ink remains Shall put fresh blood into thy withered veins, And on thy red decayed, thy whiteness dead, Shall set a white more white, a red more red.

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