The International Library of Famous Literature: Selections from the World's Great Writers, Ancient, Mediaeval, and Modern, with Biographical and Explanatory Notes and with Introductions, Band 3

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Merrill and Baker, 1898 - 9822 Seiten
 

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Seite 1373 - There is the moral of all human tales; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory— when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption,— barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Seite 1120 - LOOK round the habitable world, how few Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue. How void of reason are our hopes and fears ! What in the conduct of our life appears So well...
Seite 983 - Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close ! The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows...
Seite 1309 - Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques...
Seite 1308 - Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
Seite 1307 - My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For tomorrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail; Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep; Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew.
Seite 1306 - Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving ; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 'T is the natural way of living.
Seite 972 - And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend — ourselves to make a Couch — for whom?
Seite 1375 - Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands...
Seite 973 - Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End! Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after some TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.

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