Què opinen els usuaris - Escriviu una ressenya
No hem trobat cap ressenya als llocs habituals.
appear bear beneath birds bloom blows bound branches breast breath bright bursts busy cheerful clear clouds cold death delight descend distant earth ev'ry eyes fair fall father fear field flocks flood flower fruits gale glory golden green groves grows hand happy hare head heart heav'n hill hour ITALY kiss land leaves lies light live lone looks mind morn mount mountains Nature never night notes o'er O’er once plain play pleasure poor Price pride rage rise rocks rolling round seasons seen shade shining shore shower side sight sings skies sleep smiling snow soft song soon soul sound spread spring storms stream summer sweet swell tear thee thou thro tide train trees trembling vale Virtue waste waters wave wide wild winds wings Winter woods young
Pàgina 22 - HAPPY the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.
Pàgina 71 - See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again ; The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise.
Pàgina 72 - Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; No torrents stain thy limpid source ; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round...
Pàgina 107 - Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow And coughing drowns the parson's saw And birds sit brooding in the snow And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Pàgina 141 - 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.
Pàgina 108 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Pàgina 62 - By wintry famine roused, from all the tract Of horrid mountains which the shining Alps, And wavy Apennine, and Pyrenees, Branch out stupendous into distant lands ; Cruel as Death, and hungry as the grave, Burning for blood, bony, and gaunt, and grim, Assembling wolves in raging troops descend ; And, pouring o'er the country, bear along, Keen as the north-wind sweeps the glossy snow. All is their prize.
Pàgina 88 - I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
Pàgina 32 - And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone; Now tell me the reason, I pray."
Pàgina 35 - I care not, fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.