The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction, Volume 15: German Fiction

Voorkant
P. F. Collier & son, 1917
0 Recensies
Reviews worden niet geverifieerd, maar Google checkt wel op nepcontent en verwijdert zulke content als die wordt gevonden.
 

Wat mensen zeggen - Een review schrijven

We hebben geen reviews gevonden op de gebruikelijke plaatsen.

Geselecteerde pagina's

Inhoudsopgave

IV
3
V
21
VI
43
VII
61
VIII
61
IX
61
X
61
XI
114
XXII
276
XXIII
282
XXIV
288
XXV
292
XXVI
311
XXVII
319
XXVIII
323
XXIX
331

XII
117
XIII
227
XIV
231
XV
235
XVI
239
XVII
246
XVIII
254
XIX
259
XX
263
XXI
271
XXX
339
XXXI
345
XXXII
350
XXXIII
359
XXXIV
366
XXXV
370
XXXVI
378
XXXVII
382
XXXVIII
387
Copyright

Overige edities - Alles bekijken

Veelvoorkomende woorden en zinsdelen

Populaire passages

Pagina 51 - I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock.
Pagina 52 - Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side: red shines the fruit afar! There Armar waits for Daura.
Pagina 51 - Bent is his head of age ; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill ? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood ; as a wave on the lonely shore ? ALPIN. My tears, O Ryno ! are for the dead ; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill ; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar;* the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more ; thy bow shall lie in the hall, unstrung ! Thou wert swift, O Morar...
Pagina 50 - Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay ! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead ! Speak, I will not be afraid ! Whither are ye gone to rest ? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale : no answer...
Pagina 50 - Colma. — It is night ; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!
Pagina 50 - Cease a little while, O wind ! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming?
Pagina 50 - Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother?
Pagina 12 - ... and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he likes. MAY 26. You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little cottage in some cosey spot, and of putting up in it with every inconvenience.
Pagina 20 - And oh, do those departed ones know how we are employed here? Do they know when we are well and happy ? Do they know when we recall their memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade of my mother hovers round me; when seated in the midst of my children. I see them assembled near me as they used to assemble near her; and then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last moments to...
Pagina 52 - Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music? Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the mountains roar! roar tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through broken...

Bibliografische gegevens