Comentarios de la gente - Escribir un comentario
No encontramos ningún comentario en los lugares habituales.
appeared arms beauty bird blue born breath bright brow called cheeks close cloud cold Comic dark dead dear death deep dream earth eyes face fair fall fancy fear gaze give gold golden gone green grief hair hand happy hath head heart Hood Hood's Hope human Kilmansegg leaves letters light lips literary living London look Magazine mind Miss morn mother nature never night once pale poem poor published remember rich rose round seems sense shade shadows shine sighs sing sleep smiles song soon sorrow soul sound spirit summer sweet tears thee There's thing thou thought trees true turn verse volume warm waters wave wind wings writes young
Página 167 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the Rich !— She sang this "Song of the Shirt ! " [The following verse appears in the original MS.
Página 75 - WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied—- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours.
Página 189 - Out of the world ! In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, — Over the brink of it, Picture it — think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair...
Página xvi - Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Página 166 - But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep, Oh! God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!
Página xlviii - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The...
Página 188 - Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Página 69 - Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook : And lo, he saw a little boy That pored upon a book ! " My gentle lad, what is't you read ? Romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable ?" The young boy gave an upward glance —
Página xxxiv - Work, work, work, In the dull December light, And work, work, work, When the weather Is warm and bright, While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring.