Poems

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Ticknow & Fields, 1856 - 336 pages
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Page 172 - O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; And on the beach undid his corded bales.
Page 184 - With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return All we have built do we discern.
Page 186 - ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you...
Page 11 - They are those in which the suffering finds no vent in action; in which a continuous state of mental distress is prolonged, unrelieved by incident, hope, or resistance; in which there is everything to be endured, nothing to be done. In such situations there is inevitably something morbid, in the description of them something monotonous. When they occur in actual life, they are painful, not tragic; the representation of them in poetry is painful also.
Page 139 - in the world they say; Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the...
Page 166 - And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames...
Page 139 - I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.
Page 57 - But let us speak no more of this! I find My father; let me feel that I have found! Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say: My son!
Page 163 - Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head.
Page 10 - What those who are familiar only with the great monuments of early Greek genius suppose to be its exclusive characteristics, have disappeared: the calm, the cheerfulness, the disinterested objectivity have disappeared; the dialogue of the mind with itself has commenced; modern problems have presented themselves; we hear already the doubts, we witness the discouragement, of Hamlet and of Faust.

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