Selections from A.C. SwinburneW. Heinemann, 1919 - 288 pagina's |
Inhoudsopgave
| 1 | |
| 8 | |
| 21 | |
| 34 | |
| 35 | |
| 43 | |
| 50 | |
| 57 | |
| 140 | |
| 149 | |
| 155 | |
| 161 | |
| 173 | |
| 180 | |
| 189 | |
| 199 | |
| 66 | |
| 73 | |
| 80 | |
| 90 | |
| 100 | |
| 109 | |
| 126 | |
| 207 | |
| 215 | |
| 221 | |
| 237 | |
| 245 | |
| 255 | |
Overige edities - Alles bekijken
Veelvoorkomende woorden en zinsdelen
A. C. SWINBURNE Aphrodite ATALANTA IN CALYDON bird bitter blind blood blossom breath bright crown dark dawn dead death deep delight devil's die dreams dust earth eyes face fain fair Faustine fear feet Félise fire flame flowers foam fools of fate forget fruit ghost glad glory gods gold green grey grief hair hands Hast thou hath hear heart heaven hopes and fears Itylus king of pain kiss Lady of Pain land laugh leaves light limbs lips live love's lovers man's desire moon mouth night Ninestane rigs pale passion praise rose round sea's season shadow shine sighs sing skies sleep soft song sorrow soul sound spirit stars strong sundew sunset sweet tears THALASSIUS thee THÉOPHILE GAUTIER thine things thou art thou not watch Thou shalt thunder waters waves weep wild wind wine wings
Populaire passages
Pagina 16 - I will go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and none other, Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me...
Pagina 53 - Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead.
Pagina 81 - No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.
Pagina 26 - A little while and we die ; shall life not thrive as it may? For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day. And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears : Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years ? Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; the world has grown grey from thy breath ; We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fulness of death.
Pagina 80 - THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE HERE, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep...
Pagina 128 - Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you ? Men touch them, and change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue For the raptures and roses of vice...
Pagina 268 - And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life...
Pagina 20 - I shall go my ways, tread out my measure, Fill the days of my daily breath With fugitive things not good to treasure...
Pagina 123 - The storm-winds of ages Blow through me and cease, The war-wind that rages, The spring-wind of peace, Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase. All sounds of all changes, All shadows and lights On the world's mountain-ranges And stream-riven heights, Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of stormclouds on earth-shaking nights...
Pagina 34 - If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune.