Posthumous Poems of Percy Bysshe ShelleyJohn and Henry L. Hunt, 1824 - 415 strán (strany) This volume was published just two years after Shelley's death. It collects some of his final poems, including unfinished works. Shelley's wife, Mary, was responsible for assembling the collection, and she also provides a revealing introduction. |
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Výsledky 1 - 5 z 100.
Strana 9
... sweet Nature never made ; A serious , subtle , wild , yet gentle being ; Graceful without design , and unforeseeing ; With eyes - Oh ! speak not of her eyes ! which seem " Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven , yet gleam With JULIAN AND ...
... sweet Nature never made ; A serious , subtle , wild , yet gentle being ; Graceful without design , and unforeseeing ; With eyes - Oh ! speak not of her eyes ! which seem " Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven , yet gleam With JULIAN AND ...
Strana 12
... sweet sounds . Then I : — " Methinks there were A cure of these with patience and kind care , If music can thus move . Whom we seek here ? " But what is he , " Of his sad history I know but this , " said Maddalo : " he came To Venice a ...
... sweet sounds . Then I : — " Methinks there were A cure of these with patience and kind care , If music can thus move . Whom we seek here ? " But what is he , " Of his sad history I know but this , " said Maddalo : " he came To Venice a ...
Strana 16
... sweet offence ; For then if love , and tenderness , and truth Had overlived Hope's momentary youth , My creed should have redeemed me from repenting ; But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting Met love excited by far other seeming Until ...
... sweet offence ; For then if love , and tenderness , and truth Had overlived Hope's momentary youth , My creed should have redeemed me from repenting ; But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting Met love excited by far other seeming Until ...
Strana 22
... sweet sleep which medicines all pain . Then - when thou speakest of me - never say , ' He could forgive not ' - Here I cast away All human passions , all revenge , all pride ; I think , speak , act no ill ; I do but hide Under these ...
... sweet sleep which medicines all pain . Then - when thou speakest of me - never say , ' He could forgive not ' - Here I cast away All human passions , all revenge , all pride ; I think , speak , act no ill ; I do but hide Under these ...
Strana 23
... sweet Venice : for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea : And then the town is silent - one may write , Or read in gondolas by day or night , Having the little brazen lamp alight , Unseen , uninterrupted : -books are there ...
... sweet Venice : for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea : And then the town is silent - one may write , Or read in gondolas by day or night , Having the little brazen lamp alight , Unseen , uninterrupted : -books are there ...
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Anarchs ANTISTROPHE Apennine art thou Baubo beams beast beauty beneath breath bright burning calm cave cavern chasm chidden CHORUS clouds cold CYCLOPS CYPRIAN DÆMON dance dark dead death deep delight DEMON desart divine dream earth EPODE eyes faint FAUST fear fierce fire fled flowers folded palm forest gaze gentle gleam green grew grey grief hair hear heart heaven Hermes JUSTINA kiss Lady leaves light lips living love waves Maddalo MEPHISTOPHELES mighty MONT BLANC moon mortal mountains move NAPLES never night o'er ocean Onchestus pale pine Pisa Pylos rocks round sate Satyr seemed shadows shapes shore SILENUS sleep smile snow soft song soul sound spirit stars strange stream sweet swift tears tempest thee thine things thou art thought ULYSSES vale veil voice wake wandering waves weep Whilst wild wild arms wind wings woods
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Strana 195 - Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high ; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Strana 194 - WHEN the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
Strana 165 - Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Strana 285 - The windings of the dell. — The rivulet, Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell Among the moss, with hollow harmony Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones It danced ; like childhood, laughing as it went : Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept, Reflecting every herb and drooping bud \ That overhung its quietness.
Strana 276 - While day-light held The sky, the Poet kept mute conference With his still soul. At night the passion came, Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream, And shook him from his rest, and led him forth Into the darkness.
Strana 23 - Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song.
Strana 81 - The great, the unforgotten, — they who wore Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths of light, Signs of thought's empire over thought. Their lore "Taught them not this, to know themselves ; their might Could not repress the mystery within ; And, for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night
Strana 274 - His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled maid Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought...
Strana 8 - Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen Those mountains towering as from waves of flame Around the vaporous sun, from which there came The inmost purple spirit of light, and made Their very peaks transparent 'Ere it fade,' Said my companion, 'I will show you soon A better station...
Strana 263 - To the Moon Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?