The Poetry of Nature |
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Page 10
... He who , from zone to zone , Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight , In the long way that I must tread alone , Will lead my steps aright . W. C. BRYANT . THE DAISY . TAR of the mead ! sweet daughter 10 Bryant.
... He who , from zone to zone , Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight , In the long way that I must tread alone , Will lead my steps aright . W. C. BRYANT . THE DAISY . TAR of the mead ! sweet daughter 10 Bryant.
Page 10
... to zone , Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight , In the long way that I must tread alone , Will lead my steps aright . W. C. BRYANT . THE DAISY . TAR of the mead ! sweet daughter 10 THE DAISY THE HARE Bryant.
... to zone , Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight , In the long way that I must tread alone , Will lead my steps aright . W. C. BRYANT . THE DAISY . TAR of the mead ! sweet daughter 10 THE DAISY THE HARE Bryant.
Page 11
... Sweet Daisy , flower of love ! when birds are pair'd , ' Tis sweet to see thee , with thy bosom bared , Smiling in virgin innocence serene , Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green . The lark , with sparkling eye and rustling wing ...
... Sweet Daisy , flower of love ! when birds are pair'd , ' Tis sweet to see thee , with thy bosom bared , Smiling in virgin innocence serene , Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green . The lark , with sparkling eye and rustling wing ...
Page 18
... And truly very piteous is her lot , Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot , Where the close - eaten grass is scarcely seen , While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! ! TO A YOUNG ASS . Poor ass ! thy. 20 To A YOUNG Coleridge.
... And truly very piteous is her lot , Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot , Where the close - eaten grass is scarcely seen , While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! ! TO A YOUNG ASS . Poor ass ! thy. 20 To A YOUNG Coleridge.
Page 18
... And truly very piteous is her lot , Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot , Where the close - eaten grass is scarcely seen , While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! ! TO A YOUNG ASS . Poor ass ! thy. 20 To A YOUNG Coleridge.
... And truly very piteous is her lot , Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot , Where the close - eaten grass is scarcely seen , While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! ! TO A YOUNG ASS . Poor ass ! thy. 20 To A YOUNG Coleridge.
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Common terms and phrases
BARN-OWL BEAUTIES IN NATURE bees bird bloom blossom blows blue bosom bough bower breast breeze bright broom CHARLOTTE SMITH CHRISTMAS cloud Cooper cowslip crown'd CUCKOO daisy deep delight dewy dost doth DYING STAG Edmund Evans FAWN flowers gentle glow-worm GOLDFINCH grass green GREEN LINNET Greenaway grove HARRISON WEIR hath hear heart heath heaven hill hour JUNE DAY LAMBS AT PLAY lark leaps light lilies LINNET lonely mark'd mead Measom MELODIES OF MORNING mountain Nature's night NIGHTINGALE NYMPH'S DESCRIPTION o'er OLD SHEPHERD'S DOG peeping pheasant pinions RAM REFLECTED RILL rose round scatter'd SEA-GULL seem'd shade shepherd shrill sight sing skies SKYLARK snow song sound spirit Spring SQUIRREL stream Summer sunny swallow sweet thee thine thrush THRUSH'S NEST TURTLE-DOVE Valentine VILLAGE BOY Violet voice warm watch'd WATER-LILY WATERFOWL waves WHEATEAR WILD DEER wind wing wood WORDSWORTH wreath WREN
Popular passages
Page 29 - Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
Page 30 - Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine! I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Page 31 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Page 58 - O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery...
Page 32 - Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then — as I am listening now.
Page 9 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Page 30 - In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...
Page 64 - But who the melodies of morn can tell ? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side : The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
Page 104 - Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes; As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music...
Page 59 - Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.