. Cent un célèbre poème, avec un supplément de prose. ess là. De retour, il a poussé comme un fou, en hurissant une malédiction à :He ciel, avec la route blanche fumant derrière lui et son rapieur brandissaient haut!sang-rouge étaient ses éperons i le midi d'or; Le vin-rouge était son manteau de velours, quand ils l'ont abattu sur l'autoroute, comme un chien sur l'autoroute, et il a couché dans son sang sur l'autoroute, avec le bouquet de dentelle à sa gorge. Et encore d'une nuit d'hiver, disent-ils, quand le vent est dans les arbres, quand la lune est un galion fantomatique jeté sur les mers nuageux.quand la route est un ruban de clair de lune au-dessus de la TH

• Contributeur: Reading Room 2020 / Alamy Banque D'Images
• ID de l’image: 2CEDNNP
• Taille du fichier: 7,1 MB (386,9 KB Téléchargement compressé)
• Autorisations: Modèle - non | Propriété - non
• Dimensions: 1400 x 1785 px | 23,7 x 30,2 cm | 9,3 x 11,9 inches | 150dpi

Informations supplémentaires

Cette image appartient au domaine public, ce qui signifie que le droit d’auteur a expiré ou que le titulaire du droit d’auteur a renoncé à ses droits. Les frais facturés par Alamy couvrent l’accès à la copie haute résolution de l’image.

Cette image peut avoir des imperfections car il s’agit d’une image historique ou de reportage.

. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. ess there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to :he sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!Blood-red were his spurs i the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winters night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purplemoor, A highwayman comes riding, Riding, riding, A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;He taps: zvith his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be wait-ing there But the landlords black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlords daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. Page One Hundred and T wenty -two. (fete ]&xmttxvjX unb ($tts Jfnm&Ks l^azmz A Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Bom February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!— For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave. In the worlds broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howeer pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act, —act in the living Present! Heart within, and God oerhead! Lives of great men all remind usWe can make

Recherche dans la banque de photos par tags

• bookcentury1900
• bookdecade1920
• livresubjectenglishpoetry