Poems, Volume 2Ticknor and Fields, 1860 |
From inside the book
Results 1-5 of 16
Page 58
... , but not faint ; And beautiful as some fair saint , Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay . As if she heard the voice of God , Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars , As on the 58 POEMS .
... , but not faint ; And beautiful as some fair saint , Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay . As if she heard the voice of God , Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars , As on the 58 POEMS .
Page 121
... saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above ; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love . In his mantle , wound about him , - As their robes the sowers wind , – - Bore he swallows and their fledglings ...
... saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above ; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love . In his mantle , wound about him , - As their robes the sowers wind , – - Bore he swallows and their fledglings ...
Page 156
... saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door , by the dark- ness befriended , And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps , Knew not ...
... saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door , by the dark- ness befriended , And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps , Knew not ...
Page 159
... like the face of the morning , Gladdened the earth with its light , and ripened thought into action . She was a woman now , with the heart and hopes of a woman . 99 " Sunshine of Saint Eulalie was she called ; EVANGELINE . 159.
... like the face of the morning , Gladdened the earth with its light , and ripened thought into action . She was a woman now , with the heart and hopes of a woman . 99 " Sunshine of Saint Eulalie was she called ; EVANGELINE . 159.
Page 160
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 99 " Sunshine of Saint Eulalie was she called ; for that was the sunshine Which , as the farmers believed , would load their orchards with apples ; She , too , would bring to her husband's house delight and ...
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 99 " Sunshine of Saint Eulalie was she called ; for that was the sunshine Which , as the farmers believed , would load their orchards with apples ; She , too , would bring to her husband's house delight and ...
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
Acadian Albrecht Dürer aloft art thou Balder Basil the blacksmith Béarn beautiful behold belfry BELFRY OF BRUGES bell beneath birds blossom bosom breath bride Bruges burning Charlemagne cloud cried dark dead descended door Evangeline Evangeline's evermore eyes face fair farmer Father fire Ever higher fireside Flanders forest Gabriel Gascon gaze Ghent gleam golden Grand-Pré Guy de Dampierre hand hear heard heart heaven higher Sing JULIUS MOSEN labor land laugh light loud maiden meadows Minnesingers moon morning never Nuremberg o'er ocean odor Ozark Mountains passed prairies prayer priest rain restless restless heart river rose round sail Saint sang seemed shadows ships shore silent slowly smile song sorrow soul sound spake stars stood sunshine sweet Tharaw thee thou thought tide toil unto village voice wandered wave weary whispered wild wind words youth
Popular passages
Page 353 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Page 78 - I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Page 357 - ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.
Page 355 - She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead.
Page 153 - Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
Page 79 - Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
Page 144 - This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Page 102 - I SHOT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, 1 knew not where ; For who has sight so keen and strong.
Page 80 - Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
Page 24 - ... rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.