The poetical works of Robert Browning, 第 3 巻

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82 ページ - By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! " Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, " We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
80 ページ - Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
106 ページ - THE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i
110 ページ - Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew — And, just because I was thrice as old And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told ? We were fellow mortals...
111 ページ - No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.
110 ページ - It was not her time to love ; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — And the sweet white brow is all of her.
216 ページ - O world, as God has made it ! all is beauty : And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
113 ページ - Now, — the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires...
125 ページ - Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever and chill.
149 ページ - And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done.

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