What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
ancient Apollo arms Art thou beautiful beside thee blank verse blind bliss bloom bosom breeze bright bright eyes canst child Christ in Hades cold creature cried curred pecifled Daily Chronicle Daily Telegraph dark dawn Dead Soul didst dramatic dreadful dream drooping earth Elizabethan eternal eyes face fell felt fire flower gazed glide glory green hair hand hast thou hath heaven human Idas indolent Ixion JOHN LANE kiss light limbs lips live lute Marpessa murmur night o'er odour once pace pain pale Paolo and Francesca passion peace pity poem poet poetic poetry rain recall remember rose Saturday Review shadows sighs silent sleep slow slowly smell smile sorrow soul speak spirit spoke STEPHEN PHILLIPS sting stir stood strange sweet tears things thou art thou shalt thought touch trembling verse walked whisper wilt thou wind woman wonder yearning
Page 27 - I'll take his arm and feel Him closer for the press. So shall we live. And though the first sweet sting of love be past, The sweet that almost venom is; though youth, With tender and extravagant delight, The first and secret kiss by twilight hedge, The insane farewell repeated o'er and o'er, Pass off; there shall succeed a faithful peace; Beautiful friendship tried by sun and wind, Durable from the daily dust of life.
Page 29 - And thou, beautiful god, in that far time, When in thy setting sweet thou gazest down On this grey head, wilt thou remember then That once I pleased thee, that I once was young ? " When she had spoken, Idas with one cry Held her, and there was silence; while the In anger disappeared.
Page 17 - Thou art what all the winds have uttered not, What the still night suggesteth to the heart. Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth, Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea; Thy face remembered is from other worlds, It has been died for, though I know not when, It has been sung of, though I know not where.
Page 79 - I in the greyness rose; I could not sleep for thinking of one dead. Then to the chest I went, Where lie the things of my beloved spread. Quietly these I took; A little glove, a sheet of music torn, Paintings, ill-done, perhaps; Then lifted up a dress that she had worn. And now I came to where Her letters are; they lie beneath the rest; And read them in the haze; She spoke of many things, was sore opprest. But these things moved me not; Not when she spoke of being parted quite, Or being misunderstood,...
Page 11 - Of the earth-sorrow : for thy life has been The history of a flower in the air, Liable but to breezes and to time, As rich and purposeless as is the rose : Thy simple doom is to be beautiful. Thee God created but to grow, not strive, And not to suffer, merely to be sweet, The favourite of his rains; and thou indeed Lately upon the summer wast disclosed.
Page 16 - Not for this only do I love thee, but Because Infinity upon thee broods; And thou art full of whispers and of shadows. Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say So long, and yearned up the cliffs to tell; Thou art what all the winds have uttered not, What the still night suggesteth to the heart.
Page 109 - A thing of exquisite poetic form, yet tingling from first to last with intense dramatic life. Mr. Phillips has achieved the impossible. Sardou could not have ordered the action more skilfully, Tennyson could not have clothed the passion in words of purer loveliness.
Page 10 - ... met; on the one side, Fresh from diffusing light on all the world Apollo; on the other without sleep Idas, and in the midst Marpessa stood. Just as a flower after drenching rain, So from the falling of felicity Her human beauty glowed, and it was new; The bee too near her bosom drowsed and dropped. But as the god sprang to embrace her, they Heard thunder, and a little afterward The far Paternal voice,
Page 23 - Of immortality without one sigh, Existence without tears for evermore. Thou would'st preserve me from the anguish, lest This holy face into the dark return. Yet I being human, human sorrow miss. The half of music, I have heard men say, Is to have grieved...