Book-song: An Anthology of Poems of Books and Bookmen from Modern AuthorsGleeson White E. Stock, 1893 - 185 pàgines |
Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
Book-song: An Anthology of Poems of Books and Bookmen from Modern Authors Gleeson White Visualització completa - 1893 |
Book-song: An Anthology of Poems of Books and Bookmen from Modern Authors Gleeson White Visualització completa - 1893 |
Book-song: An Anthology of Poems of Books and Bookmen from Modern Authors Gleeson White Visualització completa - 1893 |
Frases i termes més freqüents
A. C. SWINBURNE ancient Andrew Lang anthology AUSTIN DOBSON BALLAD beauty Betty Barnes BIBLIOMANIAC'S binding bookmen BOOKWORM breath bright brook CLINTON SCOLLARD Confessio Amantis COPY dark dead dear dingy doth DOUGLAS Sladen dream dust EDMUND Gosse Elzevir empty day eyes fair fame fire folios fresh flowers Friar Jerome friends gold golden grey hand haunts heart Horace IRVING BROWNE JOHN KENDRICK BANGS JOHN TODHUNTER Keats took snuff kiss leaves LIBRARY light live look Lord mind morning Muses never night nook numbers o'er Odd Volume old books Omar Oscar Wilde perchance perfect a sette poems poet poor praise quaint rare read to-night rest rhyme RICHARD LE GALLIENNE scorn shelf shelves shine sing singer smile song soul spirit sweet taste tell thee THEODORE WATTS There's thine things thou thought to-day tomes treasure vellum verse Villon word
Passatges populars
Pàgina 136 - If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts. And every sweetness that inspired their hearts. Their minds, and muses on admired themes; If all the heavenly quintessence they still From their immortal flowers of poesy, Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive The highest reaches of a human wit; If these had made one poem's period, And all...
Pàgina 130 - There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks...
Pàgina 61 - Deal gently with us, ye who read ! Our largest hope is unfulfilled, — The promise still outruns the deed, — The tower, but not the spire, we build. Our whitest pearl we never find ; Our ripest fruit we never reach ; The flowering moments of the mind Drop half their petals in our speech.
Pàgina 129 - AT evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.
Pàgina 32 - A precious - mouldering pleasure - 'tis • To meet an Antique Book In just the Dress his Century wore A privilege - I think His venerable Hand to take And warming in our own A passage back - or two - to make To Times when he - was young...
Pàgina 49 - It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued. There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought...
Pàgina 139 - Till death clipped close their flight with shameful shears; Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire, When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name! Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn!
Pàgina 139 - Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn ! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears! Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears! What far delight has cooled the fierce desire That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Pàgina 34 - He lov'd old Books and nappy ale, So liv'd at Streatham, next to THRALE. 'Twas there this stain of grease I boast Was made by Dr. JOHNSON'S toast. (He did it, as I think, for Spite; My Master call'd him Jacobite!) And now that I so long to-day Have rested post discrimina, Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair, Must I these travell'd bones inter In some Collector's sepulchre! Must I be torn from hence and thrown With frontispiece and colophon! With vagrant E's,...
Pàgina 39 - BEHIND thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack, Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro, Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe, And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back, Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack ! To make wiseacredom, both high and low, Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go...