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A. Williams & Company, 1877 - American poetry - 86 pages

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Page 79 - There's not a budding boy or girl this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in may. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Page 51 - Blest as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile.
Page 51 - Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And rais'd such tumults in my breast ; For while I gaz'd, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost : My bosom glow'd ; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame ; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd ; My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ; My feeble pulse forgot to play ; I fainted, sunk, and died away.
Page 79 - Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty.
Page 79 - Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While...
Page 7 - O' the season comes in turn to bloom and perish. But first of all the violet, with an eye Blue as the midnight heavens, the frail snow-drop, Born of the breath of Winter, and on his brow Fixed like a pale and solitary star...
Page 83 - Surely, thou know'st ; and now I almost think Some spiritual creature waits on thee. Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends Up from the city to these quiet shades ; A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, And voices from the hills. Tarn. The sounds I mean, Floated like mournful music round my head, From unseen fingers. Had. When
Page 79 - A presence that disturbs us with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
Page 6 - And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away. She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak But moss and rarest mistletoe : She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, And in silence prayeth she.
Page 65 - Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair, Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields And thinking of the days that are no more.

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