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beauty beneath birds bound breath bright Browning Byron called child clear cloud dark dead death deep delight dream earth England English eyes face fair fear feel field fire flowers friends give green hand happy hath head hear heard heart heaven hills hope hour human Italy Keats lake leaves less light lines live look mind morning nature never night o'er once pain passed play poems poet praise rest round seemed seen SELECTIONS Shelley sight silent sing song soon soul sound speak spirit Spring star strong sweet tell thee thine things thou thought trees turn voice wandering wild wind wood Wordsworth write wrote Yarrow young youth
Page 85 - SHE was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
Page 253 - There was a little city, and few men within it; and there came a great king against it, and besieged it, and built great bulwarks against it. Now there was found in it a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city; yet no man remembered that same poor man.
Page 85 - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
Page 184 - My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare...
Page 220 - Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
Page 270 - And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows? Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge- — That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!
Page 266 - for Aix is in sight !" "How they'll greet us !" — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets
Page 140 - The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
Page 23 - To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom— Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.