What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
began bird blood bow'd breath bright brow call'd cheek clouds cold cried dance dark dead dear Death doth dream earth elves Eugene Aram eyes face fair fairy fancy fear flowers gaze gentle gloomy gold Gold Sticks Golden Ass Golden Leg grave green Gretna Green grief hand hath head heart heaven horrid horse huckaback Huggins human Jack John Huggins light limb living look look'd Lycus maid Meanwhile merry Miss Kilmansegg moon morning ne'er Nelly Gray never night o'er once Otto of Roses perchance Peter Stone poor Quoth raining music ride ring rose round Sally Brown Saturn Scott Burn seem'd shine sighs sing skies sleep song soon sorrow soul stamp'd stept stood sweet tears thee There's thing thou thought thro took tree turn turn'd Twas wave weep Whilst wild wings
Page 185 - Oh but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ! With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal!
Page 256 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light!
Page 256 - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, — But now 'tis little joy: To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy ! THOMAS HOOD.
Page 185 - WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — • Stitch— stitch— stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!
Page 1 - One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! 'Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair! "Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. 'Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her,— All...
Page 1 - Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Page 184 - But why do I talk of Death — That phantom of grisly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own, — It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God!
Page 184 - Work, work, work! From weary chime to chime ; Work, work, work, As prisoners work for crime : Band and gusset and seam, Seam and gusset and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.
Page 354 - One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave...
Page 351 - The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain ; And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves ; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves ; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves ; And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, — Aye, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod...