Poetical Works, àÅèÁ·Õè 2Ticknor and Fields, 1861 |
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˹éÒ 11
... passing through the ford , Or killed in falling from his horse . O , what to her shall be the end ? And what to me remains of good ? To her , perpetual maidenhood , And unto me , no second friend . VII . DARK house , by which once more ...
... passing through the ford , Or killed in falling from his horse . O , what to her shall be the end ? And what to me remains of good ? To her , perpetual maidenhood , And unto me , no second friend . VII . DARK house , by which once more ...
˹éÒ 17
... pass Athwart a plane of molten glass , I scarce could brook the strain and stir That makes the barren branches loud ; And but for fear it is not so , The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises ...
... pass Athwart a plane of molten glass , I scarce could brook the strain and stir That makes the barren branches loud ; And but for fear it is not so , The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises ...
˹éÒ 19
... passes by , And hushes half the babbling Wye , And makes a silence in the hills . The Wye is hushed nor moved along ; And hushed my deepest grief of all , When , filled with tears that cannot fall , I brim with sorrow drowning song ...
... passes by , And hushes half the babbling Wye , And makes a silence in the hills . The Wye is hushed nor moved along ; And hushed my deepest grief of all , When , filled with tears that cannot fall , I brim with sorrow drowning song ...
˹éÒ 43
... pass ; my work will fail . Yet in these ears , till hearing dies , One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever looked with human eyes . I hear it now , and o'er and o'er , Eternal greetings to the dead ...
... pass ; my work will fail . Yet in these ears , till hearing dies , One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever looked with human eyes . I hear it now , and o'er and o'er , Eternal greetings to the dead ...
˹éÒ 52
... pass the path that each man trod Is dim , or will be dim , with weeds : What fame is left for human deeds In endless age ? It rests with God . O hollow wraith of dying fame , Fade wholly , while the soul exults , And self - infolds the ...
... pass the path that each man trod Is dim , or will be dim , with weeds : What fame is left for human deeds In endless age ? It rests with God . O hollow wraith of dying fame , Fade wholly , while the soul exults , And self - infolds the ...
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˹éÒ 41 - OH yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete...
˹éÒ 6 - We have but faith: we cannot know, For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. > Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.
˹éÒ 95 - THERE rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
˹éÒ 37 - That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet. Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; And I shall know him when we meet; And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other's good.
˹éÒ 139 - There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.
˹éÒ 52 - So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law.
˹éÒ 82 - Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light : The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow : The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
˹éÒ 7 - I HELD it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.
˹éÒ 58 - I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; No lower life that earth's embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
˹éÒ 28 - Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.