Hausschatz englischer Poesie: Auswahl aus den Werken der bedeutendsten englischen Dichter von Chaucer bis auf die neueste Zeit, in chronologischer Ordnung begleitet von biographischen und literarischen Einleitungen. Ein Handbuch der englischen Poesie und igrer Geschichte
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Allan Cunningham beauty beneath bliss bosom breast breath bright brow Castara charms cheek clouds Corb dead dear death delight Dichter doth dream earth Edinburg englischen erhielt erschienen eyes fair Faustus fear flowers frae geboren Gedichte gentle gest glory grace grave green grief Grongar Hill hand happy hast hath hear heart heaven hochst hope hour Hudibras Jahre Kilmeny Leben lebte Leistungen light live London look Lord maid mehrere morn Muse ne'er never night nymph o'er pain pale pleasure Poesie Poesieen poetischen Prosaist rills rose round scorn shade sigh sing sleep smile soft song Sonnet sorrow soul sound spater spirit spring star starb stream studirte sunne sweet tears tell tempest thee thine thou art thought trat Twas unto viele ward wave weep Werke wieder wild wind wings wurde wyllowe youth Zeit zuerst
Page 283 - Ode to a Nightingale MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk...
Page 283 - As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: — do I wake or sleep?
Page 285 - Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers...
Page 87 - Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee...
Page 251 - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
Page 200 - Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone ; Never hear the sweet music of speech, — I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.
Page 126 - IT must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ! — Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought ? why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 'Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man.
Page 320 - Ye Mariners of England ! That guard our native seas, — Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze, — Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe ; And sweep through the deep While the stormy winds do blow...
Page 189 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.