Milton's Minor Poems

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Ainsworth, 1901 - 75 pages
 

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Page 7 - O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day! O first created beam, and thou great Word, Let there be light, and light was over all; Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree?
Page 69 - O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wild Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn.
Page 68 - Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring : Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Page 24 - Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold, The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook...
Page 26 - While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep ; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream...
Page 23 - Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : — But first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation...
Page 23 - Oft on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit...
Page 22 - Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes...
Page 73 - Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
Page 19 - When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn, That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings.

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