The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language

Forside
Macmillan, 1924 - 483 sider
5 Anmeldelser
Anmeldelsene blir ikke bekreftet, men Google ser etter falskt innhold og fjerner slikt innhold som avdekkes

Inni boken

Hva folk mener - Skriv en omtale

Brukervurderinger

5 stjerner
4
4 stjerner
1
3 stjerner
0
2 stjerner
0
Én stjerne
0

Anmeldelsene blir ikke bekreftet, men Google ser etter falskt innhold og fjerner slikt innhold som avdekkes

LibraryThing Review

Brukerevaluering  - NickDuberley - LibraryThing

My favourite Poetry anthology. It's been through many editions. I had the Oxford World's Classics one when I was a teenager, and later on the Everyman one - rather easier on the eyes. If you are only going to buy one poetry book, this is the one to get. Les hele vurderingen

LibraryThing Review

Brukerevaluering  - PollyMoore3 - LibraryThing

An updated version including some more modern poems. Among many favourites, it includes Ben Jonson's “Hymn to Diana”, one of the most perfect lyrics in the English language (you can recite it to the moon, and I have been known to), and “It is not growing like a tree”. Les hele vurderingen

Andre utgaver - Vis alle

Vanlige uttrykk og setninger

Populære avsnitt

Side 250 - Earth has not anything to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers,, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Side 179 - She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
Side 249 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Side 64 - It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log, at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall, and die that night; It was the plant, and flower of light. In small proportions, we just beauties see: And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Side 211 - MILTON ! thou should'st be living at this hour : England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou...
Side 145 - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Side 181 - Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. 'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Side 366 - 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 18 - That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that...
Side 178 - She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

Bibliografisk informasjon