Underbrush

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1881 - American essays - 410 pages
 

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Page 400 - Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Page 399 - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
Page 14 - Latin — rime being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse, in longer works especially, but the invention of a barbarous age...
Page 389 - How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, — as we shall know for ever.
Page 82 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 57 - ... the very hill which we were ascending, through deep snows, in a New England sleigh, when my father made known this purpose to me. I could not speak. How could he, I thought, with so large a family and in such narrow circumstances, think of incurring so great an expense for me. A warm glow ran all over me, and I laid my head on my father's shoulder and wept.
Page 291 - All possibilities are in its hands, No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands; In its sublime audacity of faith, "Be thou removed!
Page 396 - ... elope with ease, And float along like birds o'er summer seas : Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? Show'd me that epic was of all the king, ' Round, vast, and spanning...
Page 389 - Alas ! we think not what we daily see About our hearths — angels, that are to be Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air; A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
Page 396 - What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine : Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, And float along like birds o'er summer seas, Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.

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