PoemsH. S. King, 1876 - 212 pagini |
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Pagina 69
... from me , who would give all , Only the memory of me growing faint Until I seem a thing incredible , Some high , sweet dream , which was not , nor could be . Aye , and in idle fields of asphodel Must it THE HEROINES . 69 Eurydice,
... from me , who would give all , Only the memory of me growing faint Until I seem a thing incredible , Some high , sweet dream , which was not , nor could be . Aye , and in idle fields of asphodel Must it THE HEROINES . 69 Eurydice,
Pagina 70
... memory of me , but myself ; these hands Ceasing from mastery and use , my thoughts Losing distinction in the vague , sweet air , The heart's swift pulses slackening to the sob Of the forgetful river , with no deed Pre - eminent to dare ...
... memory of me , but myself ; these hands Ceasing from mastery and use , my thoughts Losing distinction in the vague , sweet air , The heart's swift pulses slackening to the sob Of the forgetful river , with no deed Pre - eminent to dare ...
Pagina 75
... memory shaped for Gods . Nor canst thou wholly lose me from thy life ; Still I am with thee ; still my hand keeps thine ; Now I restrain from too intemperate grief Being a portion of the thoughts that claim Thy service ; now I urge with ...
... memory shaped for Gods . Nor canst thou wholly lose me from thy life ; Still I am with thee ; still my hand keeps thine ; Now I restrain from too intemperate grief Being a portion of the thoughts that claim Thy service ; now I urge with ...
Pagina 80
... Memory , And no wind will yon sunken clouds derange , No glory enrapture them ; from cot or grange The rare voice ceases ; one long - breathed sigh , And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie ; All things are acquiescing in the ...
... Memory , And no wind will yon sunken clouds derange , No glory enrapture them ; from cot or grange The rare voice ceases ; one long - breathed sigh , And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie ; All things are acquiescing in the ...
Pagina 85
... the sun At mid - day loads your sense with drowsy warmth , And in the waver and echo of your caves , You cherish memories of the billowy chaunt , And ponder its dim prophecy , And I , - Lo here I strike upon the AMONG THE ROCKS . 85.
... the sun At mid - day loads your sense with drowsy warmth , And in the waver and echo of your caves , You cherish memories of the billowy chaunt , And ponder its dim prophecy , And I , - Lo here I strike upon the AMONG THE ROCKS . 85.
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