Early Prose Writings of James Russell Lowell

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John Lane, 1902 - 248 pages
 

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Page 86 - Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say I died true: My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
Page 144 - My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, Is driven I know not whither.
Page 94 - ON A GIRDLE. THAT which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind : No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done.
Page 90 - Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
Page 175 - Into a pretty anger, that a bird, Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice ; To end the controversy, in a rapture Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly So many voluntaries, and so quick That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight.
Page 93 - The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield, Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore: I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
Page 86 - Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin : My lady sweet, arise! Arise! arise!
Page 204 - When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, Nor I no way to flatter, but my fondness, In all the bravery my friends could show me, In all the faith my innocence could give me, In the best language my true tongue could tell me, And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me, I sued, and served.
Page 114 - Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, And his rapt ship run on her side so low, That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air.
Page 241 - The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth! The violet bed's not sweeter.

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