English Sonnets by Living WritersSamuel Waddington G. Bell, 1884 - 221 pages |
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Expressions et termes fréquents
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE AUBREY DE Vere aught autumn beauty behold beneath bird breath CHRISTINA ROSSETTI Conscience crown DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI dark dead Death didst doth dread dream EARL LYTTON earth echo EDWARD DOWDEN evermore eyes fair feet flame flowers FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE golden Guittone Guittonian hair hand happy hath heart heaven hill hour Italian JOHN JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS kiss laughing life's light lips live lonely Lord love's MATTHEW ARNOLD mists morn mountain murmur night o'er pain pale Petrarch PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON poem poetry poets poor rhymes RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH ROBERT BUCHANAN round saith shade shadow sighs sight silence sing sleep song sonnet soul spirit star stream sweet tears thee thine things Thou art thought trees truth unto voice wandering waves weary WILLIAM BELL SCOTT wilt wind wings worship youth
Fréquemment cités
Page 200 - This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Page 105 - The lost days of my life until to-day, What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food but trodden into clay? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay ? Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway? I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. "I am thyself, — what...
Page 71 - WHEN vain desire at last and vain regret Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, What shall assuage the unforgotten pain And teach the unforgetful to forget ? Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet, — Or may the soul at once in a green plain Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet ? Ah...
Page 57 - Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam, Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.
Page 131 - COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee. Do thou With courtesy receive him : rise and bow : And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave, Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality, no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate Thy soul's marmoreal calmness.
Page 162 - As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that ^Easan isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine, As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again...
Page 31 - O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Page 153 - SAD is our youth, for It is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet: Sad is our life, for onward it Is flowing In current unperceived, because so fleet: Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat: Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing — And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet.
Page 57 - Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited; I met a preacher there I knew, and said : " 1ll and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene ? " " Bravely! " said he; " for I of late have been Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.
Page 53 - But thro' the night a beast she grins at me, A very monster void of love and prayer. By day she stands a lie: by night she stands In all the naked horror of the truth, With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.