She was also an editor and translator. I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, Or watched him winding close the spiral string That looped the orbits of the humming top. My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red,A little wreath of roses around His radiant head. So you had a good Monday giggle holding all in suspense. Kind Regards Jim Clark All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2012 Roses by George Eliot You love the roses - so do I.
My work is mine,And, heresy or not, if my hand slackedI should rob God - since his is fullest good -Leaving a blank instead of violins. But when I took my posy and laid it at His feetI found He had His roses a million times more sweet. No figure lingering Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye Or rest a little on the lap of life. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush. Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told,That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold. The people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday.
The birds fly from me; The stars are golden fruit Upon a tree All out of reach My little sister went and I am lonely. Then all the valley would be pink and white And soft to tread on. The wind comes rushing by. But when I took my posy and laid it at His feetI found He had His roses a million times more sweet. They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be Like sleeping and like waking, all at once! Upon the imperilled line, suspended high, A silver perch! Eliot did not, however, confine herself to her bucolic roots.
White light pours Flies away. But were his the best, He could not work for two. One small variety to grow was called Ice Cream. Antonio Stradivari has an eyeThat winces at false work and loves the true. O radiant dark, O darkly foster'd ray, Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow day. All the long-drawn earthy banks Up to cloudland lifting: Slow between them drifts the swan 'Twixt two heavens drifting, Wings half open like a flower. When we have passed away, love, All things will keep their name; But yet no life on earth, love, With ours will be the same.
Our meadow-path had memorable spots: One where it bridged a tiny rivulet, Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots; And all along the waving grasses met My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew My wonder downward, seeming all to speak With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief --a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. Appears on these pages This file contains additional information, probably added from the digital camera or scanner used to create or digitize it. She is the author of seven novels, including Adam Bede 1859 , The Mill on the Floss 1860 , Silas Marner 1861 , Middlemarch 1871--72 , and Daniel Deronda 1876 , most of them set in provincial England and well known for their realism and psychological insight. Written by For Katherine Bregy I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring,For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.
There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand,And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land. In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, I wondered why this happiness befell. Her personal life was scandalous for the time. Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil; My aëry-picturing fantasy was taught Subjection to the harder, truer skill That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line, And by 'What is,' 'What will be' to define. They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!.
Then all the valley would be pink and whiteAnd soft to tread on. Little Lisa went and I am lonely. Those long days measured by my little feet Had chronicles which yield me many a text; Where irony still finds an image meet Of full-grown judgments in this world perplext. We had the self-same world enlarged for each By loving difference of girl and boy: The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach He plucked for me, and oft he must employ A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind 'This thing I like my sister may not do, For she is little, and I must be kind. Barra, Rosa Old Blush, 1987 You love the roses--so do I. Readers in the Victorian era particularly praised her books for their depictions of rural society, for which she drew on her own early experiences, and she shared with Wordsworth the belief that there was much interest and importance in the mundane details of ordinary country lives.
May I reach That purest heaven, -- be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense! But if, through all the livelong day, You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay -- If, through it all You've nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face-- No act most small That helped some soul and nothing cost -- Then count that day as worse than lost. She used a male pen name, she said, to ensure her works would be taken seriously. Lacks my love aught that I should long? Onward go Towards the morn O ja là O ja là. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore, And learned the meanings that give words a soul, The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. It was but a minute In a far-off spring, But each gentle thing, Sweetly wooing linnet, Soft thrilled hawthorn tree, Happy shadowy elf, With the thinnest self, Live on still in me.