Tales of a lay brother. Neville's cross


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Pàgina 111 - But, see, his face is black, and full of blood ; His eyeballs further out than when he lived, Staring full ghastly like a strangled man ; His hair upreared, his nostrils stretched with struggling ; His hands abroad displayed, as one that grasped And tugged for life, and was by strength subdued.
Pàgina 253 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. — That strain again ! — it had a dying fall : Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets, ( Stealing and giving odour !— Enough ; no more ; ( 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.
Pàgina 203 - But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
Pàgina 73 - Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace Congenial colours in that soul or face) — Look on her features!
Pàgina 141 - Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer...
Pàgina 68 - And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being...
Pàgina 275 - The Convent bells are ringing, But mournfully and slow ; In the gray square turret swinging, With a deep sound, to and fro. Heavily to the heart they go ! Hark ! the hymn is singing— The song for the dead below, Or the living who shortly shall be so ! For a departing being's soul The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll...
Pàgina 108 - Daughter's dead! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quench'd its ray? — the blood that thou hast shed! Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: "Where is my child?

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