Old and New MastersScribner's Sons, 1919 - 249 pagine |
Altre edizioni - Visualizza tutto
Parole e frasi comuni
artist Ballads beauty Belloc Browning Browning's called characters Chesterton colour comedy comic confession Conrad dark Dauber delight Dostoevsky dream England English essay express eyes Fanny Brawne feel figure French French Revolution genius Hardy Hardy's heart Henry James hero heroic human humour imagination Irish J. C. SQUIRE Jane Austen Keats Keats's Kipling Lady Lady Gregory letters literary literature living look lover lyric mediæval Molière mood nature never novelist novels once Oscar Wilde passion phrase plays poems poet poetry political Pope portrait praise prose realist regard Ronsard Rossetti secret seems sense Shaw Shaw's ship Sidney Colvin Sir Sidney sort soul spirit story Strindberg Swinburne Swinburne's Synge T. M. KETTLE talk Tchehov tells things tragic truth Turgenev verse Villon vision W. B. YEATS woman women wonder words Wordsworth writes written wrote Yeats young youth
Brani popolari
Pagina 139 - The worship of that Love through thee made known? Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own? O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing?
Pagina 91 - Not see ? because of night perhaps ? — Why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, — 'Now stab and end the creature — to the heft!
Pagina 235 - I LOOK into my glass, And view my wasting skin, And say, " Would God it came to pass My heart had shrunk as thin ! " For then, I, undistrest By hearts grown cold to me, Could lonely wait my endless rest With equanimity. But Time, to make me grieve, Part steals, lets part abide ; And shakes this fragile frame at eve With throbbings of noontide.
Pagina 90 - look you!" vents a brace of rhymes, And in there breaks the sudden rose herself, Over us, under, round us every side, Nay, in and out the tables and the chairs And musty volumes, Boehme's book and all, — Buries us with a glory, young once more, Pouring heaven into this shut house of life.
Pagina 162 - WHY should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is ? Was there another Troy for her...
Pagina 103 - TELL me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere, — She whose beauty was more than human? But where are the snows of yester-year?
Pagina 240 - WHEN the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, 'He was a man who used to notice such things'? If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink, The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think, 'To him this must have been a familiar sight.
Pagina 110 - Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name? A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres: Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns; And atheism and religion take their turns; A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.
Pagina 62 - I could be buried near where she lives ! I am afraid to write to her — to receive a letter from her — to see her handwriting would break my heart — even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written would be more than I can bear.
Pagina 141 - Everywhere, be it dry or wet And market-night in the Haymarket. Our learned London children know, Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe; Have seen your lifted silken skirt Advertise dainties through the dirt; Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke On virtue; and have learned your look When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare Along the streets alone, and there, Round the long park, across the bridge, The cold lamps at the pavement's edge Wind on together and apart, A fiery serpent for your...