Literary News, Volum 3Publication Office, 1882 |
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50 cents admirable American Appleton artistic beautiful biography BOOKSELLER Boston Gazette Carlyle character Charles charming Christian cloth contains Critic Dickens edition Emerson England English essays F. B. Sanborn fiction French friends G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS George George Eliot gilt girl Harper Henry Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Holt Houghton humor illustrations interest issue James John Journal Lady Library Lippincott literary literature living Longfellow Lothrop Macmillan Mifflin Miss modern Monthly morocco N. Y. Tribune nature novel octavo original Oscar Wilde Osgood paper Park Row poems poet poetry political popular portrait present printed Prize Questions Prof published Putnam reader Roberts SALE says the Boston Science Scribner Scribner's Sons selected sketches story style Thomas Carlyle thought tion Traveller verse volume votes W. D. Howells writings written York young
Populære avsnitt
Side 289 - Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Side 144 - A Sonnet is a moment's monument, — Memorial from the Soul's eternity To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be. Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, Of its own arduous fulness reverent : Carve it in ivory or in ebony, As Day or Night may rule ; and let Time see Its flowering crest impearled and orient. A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals The soul, — its converse, to what Power 'tis due ; — Whether for tribute to the august appeals Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue.
Side 116 - It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century ; — But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men...
Side 177 - Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
Side 116 - ... lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay...
Side 177 - Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
Side 188 - DELIGHT IN DISORDER A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction, An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher, A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly, A winning wave (deserving note) In the tempestuous petticoat, A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility, Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.
Side 138 - To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer's day. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. Longing for the May.
Side 146 - Amaziah, I was no prophet, neither was I a prophet's son ; but I was an herdman, and a gatherer of sycamore fruit:* And the LORD took me as I followed the flock, and the LORD said unto me, Go, prophesy unto my people Israel...
Side 168 - I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem...