The Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning ...

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C. S. Francis & Company, 1853

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Page 187 - 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.
Page 208 - And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so brokenhearted, He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation.
Page 188 - Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved sleep.
Page 188 - His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap : More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Page 194 - We were not cruel, yet did sunder His white wing from the blue waves under, And bound it, while his fearless eyes Shone up to ours in calm surprise, As deeming us some ocean wonder.
Page 287 - By your beauty, which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, — By our grand heroic guesses. Through your falsehood, at the True, — We will weep not, . . . / earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole — And Pan is dead. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth : And those debonaire romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot-course is run ! Look up, poets, to the sun ! Pan, Pan is dead.
Page 137 - Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white Well satisfied with dew and light And careless to be seen. Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all.
Page 237 - WE overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination (given us to bring down The choirs of singing angels overshone By God's clear glory) down our earth to rake The dismal snows instead, — flake following flake, To cover all the corn. We walk upon The shadow of hills across a level thrown, And pant like climbers.
Page 305 - Queen!' from hill to mart. She heard through all her beating heart, And turned and wept— She wept, to wear a crown ! , ' God save thee, weeping Queen! Thou shalt be well beloved!
Page 235 - we cry, " O dreary life ! " And still the generations of the birds Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds Serenely live while we are keeping strife With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife Against which we may struggle. Ocean girds Unslackened the dry land...

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