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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations 4 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Oldport days, with ten heliotype illustrations from views taken in Newport, R. I., expressly for this work. 2 0 Browse Search
James Russell Lowell, Among my books 2 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: October 4, 1862., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations. You can also browse the collection for Amor or search for Amor in all documents.

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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations, Sonnet from Petrarch (134). (search)
Sonnet from Petrarch (134). Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina. Petrarch. When Love doth those sweet eyes to earth incline, And weaves those wandering notes into a sigh With his own touch, and leads a minstrelsy Clear-voiced and pure, angelic and divine,--He makes sweet havoc in this heart of mine, And to my thoughts brings transformation high, So that I say, “My time has come to die, If fate so blest a death for me design.” But to my soul thus steeped in joy the sound Brings such a wish to keep that present heaven, It holds my spirit back to earth as well. And thus I live: and thus is loosed and wound The thread of life which unto me was given By this sole Siren who with us doth dw
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations, Sonnet from Camoens (186). (search)
Sonnet from Camoens (186). For we had been reading Camoens,--that poem, you remember, Which his lady's eyes were praised in, as the sweetest ever seen. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia. Camoens. Those eyes from whence chaste love was wont to glow, And smiled to see his torches kindled there; That face within whose beauty strange and rare The rosy light of dawn gleamed o'er the snow; That hair, which bid the envious sun to know His brightest beams less golden rays did wear; That pure white hand, that gracious form and fair: All these into the dust of earth must go. O perfect beauty in its tenderest age! O flower cut down ere it could all unfold By the stern hand of unrelenting death! Why did not Love itself quit earth's poor stage, Not because here dwelt beauty's perfect mould, But that so soon it passed from mortal breath? Finis.