A fable for critics. The unhappy lot of Mr. Knott. Fragments of an unfinished poem. An original apologue. Under the willows, and other poemsHoughton, Mifflin, 1890 |
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Agamenticus Apollo Appledore Auf wiedersehen bard beauty bird blow blue bobolink bore brain breath Clotho cloud dark dead dear deep divine door doubt dream ears earth Eliab eyes faith fancy feel feet fire forever ghosts glow gold grace grew hair half hand Harmodius and Aristogeiton hath hear heart heaven Jacob's-ladder Jotun Judah Monis keep kind Knott Lachesis laugh light look Mephistopheles mind mused musical waste Nature ne'er neath nether edge never night o'er Odin once poet poor raps rhyme roar round rust in peace sang scarce seemed shade shore silent Singing Leaves Skald sleep snow sometimes song soul spin spirits stir sure sweet tears thee there's things thou thought thrill throb tree true turn twixt verse vext wait wiedersehen wind wise wonder wood woodland enchanted word
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หน้า 85 - s striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching ; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he 'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.
หน้า 167 - I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn,* Where a little headstone stood, How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying,
หน้า 41 - C. labors to get at the centre, and then Take a reckoning from there of his actions and men ; E. calmly assumes the said centre as granted, And, given himself, has whatever is wanted.
หน้า 74 - And my ear with that music impregnate may be, Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea, Or as one can't bear Strauss...
หน้า 62 - d do that, I should feel very ill at ease ; The men who have given to one character life And objective existence are not very rife ; You may number them all, both prosewriters and singers, Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker Than Adams the parson or Primrose the...
หน้า 72 - There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge, Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, In a way to make people of common sense damn metres, Who has written some things quite the best of their But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, Who — But hey-day!
หน้า 287 - Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music...
หน้า 41 - s most abounding, the other 's to seek; C.'s generals require to be seen in the mass, — E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass ; C. gives Nature and God his own fits of the blues, And rims common-sense things with mystical hues, — E. sits in a mystery calm and intense, And looks coolly around him with sharp common sense; C. shows you how every-day matters unite With the dim transdiurnal recesses of night, — While E., in a plain, preternatural way, Makes mysteries matters of mere every...
หน้า 85 - Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes, He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes. His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'.
หน้า 285 - O valley safe in Fancy's land, Not tramped to mud yet by the million ! " Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale To his, my singer of all weathers, My Calderon, my nightingale, My Arab soul in Spanish feathers. "Ah, friend, these singers dead so long, And still, God knows, in purgatory, Give its best sweetness to all song, To Nature's self her better glory.