The Writings of James Russell Lowell: Poems

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Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1890
 

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หน้า 51 - ll grant, if you choose, he has 'em, But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm ; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. " He is very nice reading in summer, but inter...
หน้า 55 - All honor and praise to the righthearted bard Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave When to look but a protest in silence was brave...
หน้า 61 - ... plucked that is wet with the dew Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; His Indians, with proper respect be it said, Are just Natty...
หน้า 41 - 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 day ; C. draws all his characters quite...
หน้า 82 - s Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit ; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit ; In long poems 't is painful sometimes, and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully As if you got more than...
หน้า 173 - Life is a leaf of paper white Whereon each one of us may write His word or two, and then comes night.
หน้า 240 - Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head ; I come to thee for shelter and for food, To Yussouf , called through all our tribes ' The Good.' "
หน้า 187 - I could not sleep for cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain ! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I 'd give all my lamps of silver bright.
หน้า 54 - There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect ; There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing...
หน้า 164 - THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

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