The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch |
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The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900 Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch No preview available - 2013 |
Common terms and phrases
Annabel Lee beauty birds blow bonnie bosom breast breath bright Camelot Clerk Saunders cloud cold Corydon dark Dark Rosaleen dead dear death deep delight dost doth dream earth Edom eyes face fair Fair Annie fear flame flowers frae gone grace grave green hair hame hand happy hath hear heart heaven Kilmeny kiss Lady Lady of Shalott land leave light lips live look Lord Love's lovers Lycidas maid merry moon morn mother ne'er never night Nut-brown Maid nymph o'er pleasure rose round Samian wine shade shadow shine sigh sing Sir Patrick Spens sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit spring stars sweet tears tell thee thine things thou art thought thro Timor Mortis conturbat tree Twas unto voice wawking weep wild wind wine wings youth
Popular passages
Page 519 - Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing...
Page 730 - O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Page 520 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn...
Page 296 - THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against Fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives,...
Page 632 - All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
Page 597 - And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. ' The floating Clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. ' The Stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where Rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Page 705 - We look before and after, And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know,...
Page 335 - Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : Who would not sing for Lycidas ? He knew, Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Page 641 - It ceased : yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Page 187 - Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing ; To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing die.