William Wetmore Story and His Friends: From Letters, Diaries, and Recollections, Volume 2

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Houghton, Mifflin & Company, 1904 - Judges
 

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Page 216 - I will lie and dream of the past time, Aeons of thought away, And through the jungle of memory Loosen my fancy to play; When, a smooth and velvety tiger, Ribbed with yellow and black, Supple and cushion-footed, I wandered
Page 216 - Ah, me ! this lifeless nature Oppresses my heart and brain! Oh, for a storm and thunder— For lightning and wild fierce rain! Fling down that lute—I hate it! Take rather his
Page 131 - In the distance you hear the long monotonous wail of the peasant's song as he returns from his work, interrupted now and then with a shrill scream to his cattle. Whitehaired goats come up the lanes in flocks, cropping as they go the overhanging bushes, and, mounting up the bank,
Page 237 - He pants to stand In its vast circus all alive with heads And quivering arms and floating robes, the air Thrilled by the roaring fremitus of men, The sun-lit awning heaving overhead, Swollen and strained against its corded veins, And flapping out its hem with loud report; The wild beasts roaring from the pit below, The wilder crowd responding from above.
Page 15 - from us, and every evening we sit on our lawn under the ilexes and cypresses and take our tea and talk until the moon has made the circuit of the quarter of the sky. He is well and full of life as ever, but poor Mrs Browning is sadly weak and ill.
Page 69 - out of her black eyes into futurity and sees the terrible fate of her race. This is the theme of the figure—Slavery on the horizon, and I made her head as melancholy and severe as possible, not at all shirking the real African type. On the contrary, it is thoroughly
Page 95 - The staying at Casa Guidi was not the worst of it. I kept in my place there like a worm-eaten piece of old furniture, looking solid enough; but when I was moved I began to go to pieces. I am getting ' mended up
Page 33 - But I have stored away much. Rome now, as when I first saw it, touches me more than any other place. Then I have been so happy with you. Perhaps it will be long before we meet again; but I cannot forget these latter delicious days.
Page 63 - the last feather that broke her down. 'The cycle is complete, ' as Browning said, looking round the room ; ' here we came fifteen years ago; here Pen was born; here Ba wrote her poems for Italy. She used to walk up and down this verandah in the summer evenings, when, revived by the southern air, she first again began to enjoy her
Page 87 - the same about with him even in the pocket of his dinner-waistcoat, yet even in his most splendid expansions showing it, happy man, to none. Such at least was the appearance he could repeatedly conjure up to a deep and mystified admirer.

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