The Book of Sorrow

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Oxford University Press, 1916 - 500 pages
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Page 427 - I HELD it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.
Page 319 - Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Page 418 - Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Page 33 - THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Page 3 - Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arv. Fear no more the frown o...
Page 391 - And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child. In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
Page 30 - I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Page 325 - Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
Page 50 - Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death...
Page 132 - The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.

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