Poetical Works, Volumen3

Smith, Elder & Company, 1872
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Página 230 - Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
Página 113 - And, friends, dear friends, — when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall,' He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Página 201 - IF thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say ' I love her for her smile — her look — her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day...
Página 112 - He giveth His beloved, sleep. 'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eye-lids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Página 111 - What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows? — He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Página 120 - Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested Upon the victim's hidden face, no love was manifested ? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted ? What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted ? Deserted!
Página 150 - GODS of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Can ye listen in your silence ? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide ? In floating islands, With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore ? Pan, Pan is dead.
Página 28 - Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place, And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace ! Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres...
Página 119 - Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses — That turns his fevered eyes around...
Página 51 - THERE is no God,' the foolish saith, But none, ' There is no sorrow,' And nature oft the cry of faith, In bitter need will borrow : Eyes, which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised, And lips say, ' God be pitiful,' Who ne'er said,

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