Què opinen els usuaris - Escriviu una ressenya
No hem trobat cap ressenya als llocs habituals.
Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
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Pàgina 391 - And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs ; And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, — Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
Pàgina 172 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Pàgina 346 - So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
Pàgina 440 - Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereal- a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between...
Pàgina 14 - To me, and to the state of my great grief, Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great, That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up : here I and sorrow sit ; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
Pàgina 201 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Pàgina 94 - O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on, To the haven under the hill ; But 0 for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, 0 sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Pàgina 202 - While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.