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arms beneath bless breast breath bright calm cheek child close clouds dark dear death deep delight dream earth face fair fancy fear feel fire flowers gaze gentle give glad green groans hand hath head hear heard heart heaven hill hope hour lady leaves light limbs listen live look maid meek meet mind moon mother murmur muse nature never night o'er once pain passed Peace pleasure poor prayer rest rise rose round scene seems sigh silent sing sister sleep smile soft song soon soothe sorrow soul sound spirit stars strange stream sweet swelling tear tell thee thine things thou thought toil tree truth voice waves wild wind wing young youth
Page 264 - By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced...
Page 214 - Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall. Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon, DEJECTION.
Page 107 - And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held: And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?
Page 181 - Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Page 182 - God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God...
Page 231 - Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this ^olian lute, Which better far were mute.
Page 213 - Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought ! My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee...
Page 262 - The author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if, that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort.