The Poetical Works of Howitt, Milman, and Keats: Complete in One Volume

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Crissy & Markley, Goldsmith's hall, Library street. Charles DeSilver, 714 Chestnut street., 1853 - English poetry - 522 pages
 

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Page 58 - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
Page 431 - The tender and delicate woman among you, which would not adventure to set the sole of her foot upon the ground for delicateness and tenderness...
Page 67 - The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot Sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the grasshopper's : he takes the lead In summer luxury — he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
Page 58 - Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
Page 41 - All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss— in sooth such things have been.
Page 59 - When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire...
Page 59 - O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Page 43 - said she, ' but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.
Page 58 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet...

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