The World's Best Poetry ...

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J. D. Morris, 1904
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Page xxxii - O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
Page 88 - Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells; In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.
Page 161 - Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene...
Page 87 - HEAR the sledges with the bells — Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight...
Page 169 - No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear...
Page 73 - The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big, manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound.
Page 39 - Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.
Page 81 - A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride.
Page lii - Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.
Page 264 - But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest - — if indeed I go — For all my mind is clouded with a doubt — To the...

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