The Inn of Strange Meetings, and Other Poems

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H.S. King, 1871 - 190 páginas
 

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Página 163 - But wherefore one's age be revealing ? Leave that to the Registry books. A man — is as old as he's feeling; A woman, as old as she looks; Don't eagles live longer than rooks ? Besides, in this festival season 'Tis fit that great truths should be told : ' Whom the gods love, die young' — for this reason, They cannot grow old.
Página 89 - Latini, et quo quemque modo fugiatque feratque laborem. sunt geminae Somni portae, quarum altera fertur cornea, qua veris facilis datur exitus umbris, altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto, sed falsa ad caelum mittunt insomnia Manes.
Página 121 - If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf.
Página 47 - NO ; I shall pass into the Morning Land As now from sleep into the life of morn ; Live the new life of the new world, unshorn Of the swift brain, the executing hand ; See the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn, As when Orion's sightless eyes discerned the dawn. I shall behold it ; I shall see the utter Glory of sunrise heretofore unseen, Freshening the woodland ways with brighter green, And calling into life all wings that flutter, All throats of music and all eyes of light, And driving o'er the verge...
Página 89 - WHEN, loved by poet and painter The sunrise fills the sky, When night's gold urns grow fainter, And in depths of amber die — When the morn-breeze stirs the curtain, Bearing an odorous freight — Then visions strange, uncertain, Pour thick through the Ivory Gate.
Página 180 - Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes ! May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes ? Closer to God art thou than I ; His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent aether's sunnier climes. Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes...
Página 179 - ALL through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The gray-blue East, a world too soon, • There sings a Thrush amid the limes.
Página 84 - It was built by a tailor of mighty renown, Whose art is no longer the talk of the town : A magical picture my memory weaves When I thrust my tired arms through its easy old sleeves.
Página 187 - Romney's touch be true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa! Her lips are sweet as love; They are parting! Do they move? Are they dumb ? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, "Come!
Página 90 - Then the oars of Ithaca dip so Silently into the sea That they wake not sad Calypso, And the Hero wanders free ; He breasts the ocean furrows At war with the words of fate, And the blue tide's low susurrus Comes up to the Ivory Gate.

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