The Cornhill Magazine, 第 14 巻、第 18 巻

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George Smith, William Makepeace Thackeray
Smith, Elder., 1866
 

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122 ページ - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine...
625 ページ - I AM not one who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night Better than such discourse...
122 ページ - These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
122 ページ - In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismay'd away. LOR. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
117 ページ - Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be.
227 ページ - Were my memory as faithful as my reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my dreams...
458 ページ - If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
118 ページ - What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome?
117 ページ - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys, Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile!
119 ページ - More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom ; and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave ; and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood-anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain.

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