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This volume consists of Coleridge's translations of The Piccolomini and The Death of Wallenstein, originally written in German by Schiller. Læs hele anmeldelsen
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appeared beautiful beneath breast breath bright called child Christabel close clouds Coleridge Coleridge's course dark dear death deep dream earth edition face fair father fear feelings flowers gaze gentle give hand hath head hear heard heart Heaven hope hour human Italy kind lady Lamb leave less letter light lines listen living look Maid mind Morning nature never night o'er once pain passed peace period pleasure poem present published remained rest rise rose round says seems sense ship sigh sleep soft song soon soul sound speak spirit strange stream sufferings sweet tears tell thee thing thou thought tion truth voice volume whole wild wind wing writes written young youth
Side 239 - She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
Side 132 - twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Side 133 - The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir, 'With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound : It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.
Side 141 - Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I...
Side 132 - Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!
Side 240 - And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!
Side 302 - Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music...
Side 286 - O ! the one life within us and abroad, Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere...
Side 310 - Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD ! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!