The World's Best Poetry ...John Vance Cheney, Sir Charles G. D. Roberts, Charles Francis Richardson, Francis Hovey Stoddard, John Raymond Howard J.D. Morris, 1904 |
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ain fireside auld auld lang syne baby Baby Bell bairn beauty Bell Ben Bolt birds bless bliss BLISS CARMAN blue Blynken Bouillabaisse breast breath bright BRUTUS Caldon Low CASSIUS child dear delight doth dreams earth EDWARD LEAR eyes face fair fear feel feet flowers frae friendship girl grow hair hand happy head hear heard heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW JEAN INGELOW JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND kiss kittens laugh life's light lips live looks maid mee-ow merry moon morning mother never night o'er play poetry poets ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON rose round shine sigh silent sing sleep smile soft song soul sweet tears thee There's things thou thought tree twinkle voice weary whisper WILLIAM WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY wind wings wish words young youth
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Стр. 182 - The time has come,' the Walrus said, ' To talk of many things: Of shoes - and ships - and sealing wax Of cabbages - and kings And why the sea is boiling hot And whether pigs have wings.
Стр. 382 - For I can raise no money by vile means: By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection...
Стр. 96 - Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me : — ' Pipe a song about a lamb : ' So I piped with merry cheer. ' Piper, pipe that song again : ' So I piped ; he wept to hear.
Стр. 85 - Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung...
Стр. 356 - Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate...
Стр. 75 - And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. " The first that died was little Jane ; In bed she moaning lay.
Стр. 74 - Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be ? " " How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell.
Стр. 73 - Thus Nature spake — the work was done; — How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.
Стр. 317 - O God ! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run, — How many make the hour full complete ; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year ; How many years a mortal man may live.
Стр. 267 - Read from some humbler poet. Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start...