The Yale Literary Magazine, Volume 61, Issue 4

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Herrick & Noyes, 1896
 

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Page 152 - Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall: Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty in his place again." "That last line is much too long for the poetry," she added, almost out loud, forgetting that Humpty Dumpty would hear her. "Don't stand chattering to yourself like that," Humpty Dumpty said, looking at her for the first time; "but tell me your name and your business.
Page 156 - Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves. And the mome raths outgrabe.
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Page 148 - When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight...
Page 149 - Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o
Page 141 - ... we have a foreboding that Clough, imperfect as he was in many respects, and dying before he had subdued his sensitive temperament to the sterner requirements of his art, will be thought a hundred years hence to have been the truest expression in verse of the moral and intellectual tendencies, the doubt and struggle towards settled convictions, of the period in which he lived.
Page 150 - When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
Page 145 - To spend uncounted years of pain, Again, again, and yet again, In working out in heart and brain The problem of our being here ; To gather facts from far and near, Upon the mind to hold them clear, And, knowing more may yet appear, Unto one's latest breath to fear The premature result to draw — Is this the object, end and law, And purpose of our being here ? THE SHADOW'.
Page 148 - ... team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin; All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? THE SONGS OF BIRDS What bird so sings, yet so does wail? O 'tis the ravished nightingale. 'Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,' she cries, And...

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