Poems

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Macmillan, 1884 - 370 pages
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Page 164 - I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the...
Page 277 - With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern.
Page 322 - O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain! Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labour-house vast Of being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm!
Page 80 - But let us speak no more of this ! I find My father ; let me feel that I have found ! Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say : My son!
Page 212 - The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;— on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Page 294 - And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames...
Page 303 - Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill! Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? I know the wood which hides the daffodil...
Page 291 - And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use — • Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn — All the live murmur of a summer's day.
Page 300 - Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour; Now seldom come I, since I came with him. That single elm-tree bright Against the west — I miss it ! is it gone ? We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
Page 253 - Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice ! On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks, On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks. In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lull'd by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets Asleep on the hills.

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