TAGHCONIC

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Դ繨ҡ - ¹Ԩó

辺Ԩó 觢ŷ

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շ辺

˹ 41 - And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might. An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers...
˹ 42 - We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace...
˹ 15 - Half-way up the stairs it stands,. And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, " Forever never ! Never Forever...
˹ 149 - Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light Of living nature, cannot be portrayed By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; But is the property of him alone Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, And in his mind recorded it with love...
˹ 13 - Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish.
˹ 152 - O God, O good beyond compare, If thus thy meaner works are fair, If thus thy bounties gild the span Of ruined earth and sinful man, How glorious must the mansion be Where thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee.
˹ 89 - Ostia, the stranger hurried to Rome ; and at Rome he remained during those hot and sickly months when, even in the Augustan age, all who could make their escape fled from mad dogs and from streets black with funerals, to gather the first figs of the season in the country.
˹ 209 - It is a fearful thing To stand upon the beetling verge, and see Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall, Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, Come up like ocean murmurs.
˹ 207 - That seems a fragment of some mighty wall Built by the hand that fashioned the old world To separate its nations, and thrown down When the flood drowned them. To the north a path Conducts you up the narrow battlement.
˹ i - Thou shalt gaze, at once, Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, And swarming roads, and there on solitudes That only hear the torrent, and the wind, And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice...

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