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Agamemnon art thou beauty Bigorre bosom breast breath brow cheek CHORUS CLYTEMNESTRA cold Cordelia dark dead dear death deep door dream Duke earth EGISTHUS ELECTRA eyes face faint fair fear feel fell flowers forever gaze genins golden grief hair hand harp hath hear heard heart heaven hope hour King King Solomon kiss lady land leaves life's light lips live lone look Lord Alfred Lucile Luvois man's Matilda moon murmured Neath never night o'er Odin once pain pale passed passion perchance PHOCIAN rapture rose round Saint Saviour scorn seemed SEMI-CHORUS sighed sight silence sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit star stood strange sweet Tannhauser tears thee thine things thou thought truth turned Twas twixt voice wandering warm weep wild wind woman words yore young youth
Page 162 - No life Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.
Page 464 - But blame us women not, if some appear Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. Who knows the Past ? and who can judge us right...
Page 219 - Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold ! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled.
Page 219 - I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the. richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas.
Page 219 - And the one bird singing alone to his nest; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!
Page 222 - There is a portrait here," he began; " There is. It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, " Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know." " This woman, she loved me well," said I. " A month ago," said my friend to me : " And in your throat," I groaned,
Page 220 - With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say; For beauty is easy enough to win — But one isn't loved every day.
Page 221 - I sat by the dreary hearth alone ; I thought of the pleasant days of yore; I said — " The staff of my life is gone, The woman I loved is no more.