The Poetry Cure: A Pocket Medicine Chest of Verse
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beauty bird blue breath bring clear comes dancing dark dawn dear death deep doth dream earth eyes face fair fall fear feel feet fire flower give glad golden grass gray green hand happy head hear heard heart heaven hills holds hope hour JOHN King land Laugh leave light live look Lord marsh mind moon morning mother mountains never night once pain pass peace play POEMS rest rise river rose round shadows shining silence silver sing skies sleep smile song sorrow soul spirit spring stand stars strong sweet tears thee things thou thought town trees turn voice walls watch waves wild wind wings woods young
Page 41 - The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
Page 171 - O, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the Fairies' midwife, and she comes, In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners...
Page 49 - To suffer woes which hope thinks infinite ; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night ; To defy power which seems omnipotent ; To love and bear ; to hope till hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates ; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent ; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great, and joyous, beautiful and free ; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory ! NOTE ON PROMETHEUS UNBOUND, BY MRS.
Page 29 - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
Page 301 - 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 355 - With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And Pomp, and Feast, and Revelry, With Mask, and antique Pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves, by haunted stream.
Page 300 - Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Page 337 - I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
Page 126 - Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow. Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Page 263 - Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" VIII. "How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets