Poems from ShelleyMacmillan, 1880 - 340 pàgines |
Des de l'interior del llibre
Resultats 1 - 5 de 40.
Pàgina 1
... thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form , -where art thou gone ? Why dost thou pass away and leave our state , This dim vast vale of tears , vacant and desolate ? Ask why the sunlight not for ever Weaves ...
... thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form , -where art thou gone ? Why dost thou pass away and leave our state , This dim vast vale of tears , vacant and desolate ? Ask why the sunlight not for ever Weaves ...
Pàgina 3
... thine - have I not kept the vow ? With beating heart and streaming eyes , even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave : they have in visioned bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatched with ...
... thine - have I not kept the vow ? With beating heart and streaming eyes , even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave : they have in visioned bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatched with ...
Pàgina 8
... thine , by forcing some lone ghost Thy messenger , to render up the tale Of what we are . In lone and silent hours , When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness , Like an inspired and desperate alchymist Staking his very life on ...
... thine , by forcing some lone ghost Thy messenger , to render up the tale Of what we are . In lone and silent hours , When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness , Like an inspired and desperate alchymist Staking his very life on ...
Pàgina 16
... thine home , Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck With thine , and welcome thy return with eyes Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy . And what am I that I should linger here , With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes ...
... thine home , Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck With thine , and welcome thy return with eyes Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy . And what am I that I should linger here , With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes ...
Pàgina 33
... , The birds did rest On the bare thorn's breast , Whose roots , beside the pathway track , Had bound their folds o'er many a crack Which the frost had made between . D 1820 . Thine eyes glowed in the glare Of the moon's dying LINES . 33.
... , The birds did rest On the bare thorn's breast , Whose roots , beside the pathway track , Had bound their folds o'er many a crack Which the frost had made between . D 1820 . Thine eyes glowed in the glare Of the moon's dying LINES . 33.
Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
Frases i termes més freqüents
Adonais Alastor ANTISTROPHE Apennine azure beams beautiful beneath birds blue bowers breast breath bright calm cave caverns clouds cold Dæmons dark dead death deep delight DEMOGORGON dream earth EPODE eternal eyes faint fire flame fled float flowers folded palm forest gaze gentle glow golden golden air grave green grew grey heart heaven hope human isles kiss leaves light lips living Maddalo mist Mont Blanc moon mortal mountains Nature never night nursling o'er ocean odour pale Pantheism passion pinnace poem poet Prometheus Unbound rain Revolt of Islam round SEMICHORUS Sensitive Plant shadow Shelley Shelley's silent sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit Spirit of Solitude splendour stars storm stream sweet swift tears thee thine things thou art thought thro tremble truth vapour veil verse vision voice wandering waves weep wild wind wind-flowers wings woods
Passatges populars
Pàgina 311 - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth...
Pàgina 77 - With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle...
Pàgina v - I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about...
Pàgina 131 - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire...
Pàgina 151 - My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside a helm conducting it; Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
Pàgina 302 - Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men ; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, ActEeon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.
Pàgina 143 - I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.
Pàgina 309 - Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill...
Pàgina 5 - On a poet's lips I slept, Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept. Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see what things they be : But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality.
Pàgina 1 - It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and countenance ; Like hues and harmonies of evening, Like clouds in starlight widely spread, Like memory of music fled, Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.