The Works of W. E. Henley: Essays

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Strana 49 - Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls And makes night hideous — Answer him, ye owls ! " Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead, Let all give way, and Morris may be read.
Strana 199 - Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!
Strana 151 - For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.
Strana 205 - But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride — That hour o...
Strana 249 - I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time.
Strana 157 - L — himself, the most delightful, the most provoking, the most witty and sensible of men. He always made the best pun, and the best remark in the course of the evening.
Strana 155 - There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, That raised emotions both of rage and fear; And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Hope withering fled, and Mercy sigh'd farewell!
Strana 220 - TO MEADOWS YE have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.
Strana 171 - Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest.
Strana 117 - The learned SMELFUNGUS travelled from Boulogne to Paris, from Paris to Rome, and so on, but he set out with the spleen and jaundice, and every object he pass'd by was discoloured or distorted. He wrote an account of them, but 'twas nothing but the account of his miserable feelings, I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of the pantheon —he was just coming out of it.

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