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The Daily Dispatch: July 18, 1861., [Electronic resource] 24 0 Browse Search
Harper's Encyclopedia of United States History (ed. Benson Lossing) 16 0 Browse Search
Knight's Mechanical Encyclopedia (ed. Knight) 12 0 Browse Search
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 23. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones) 10 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations 10 0 Browse Search
Frank Preston Stearns, Cambridge Sketches 8 0 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 3 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 4 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Oldport days, with ten heliotype illustrations from views taken in Newport, R. I., expressly for this work. 4 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: February 25, 1865., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe 2 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Oldport days, with ten heliotype illustrations from views taken in Newport, R. I., expressly for this work.. You can also browse the collection for Cleopatra or search for Cleopatra in all documents.

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blue and golden glistenings, and bearing tiny rows of fringing oars that tremble like a baby's eyelids. There is less of gross substance in them than in any other created thing,--mere water and outline, destined to perish at a touch, but seemingly never touching, for they float secure, finding no conceivable cradle so soft as this awful sea. They are like melodies amid Beethoven's Symphonies, or like the songs that wander through Shakespeare, and that seem things too fragile to risk near Cleopatra's passion and Hamlet's woe. Thus tender is the touch of ocean; and look, how around this piece of oaken timber, twisted and torn and furrowed,--its iron bolts snapped across as if bitten,--there is yet twined a gay garland of ribbon-weed, bearing on its trailing stem a cluster of bright shells, like a mermaid's chatelaine. Thus adorned, we place it on the blaze. As night gathers without, the gale rises. It is a season of uneasy winds, and of strange, rainless storms, which perplex the
now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows. And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn, Left dark without the light I loved in vain, Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn; Dead is the source of all my amorous strain, Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn, And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain. And yet I live! What a pause is implied before these words! the drawing of a long breath, immeasurably long; like that vast interval of heart-beats that precedes Shakespeare's Since Cleopatra died. I can think of no other passage in literature that has in it the same wide spaces of emotion. The following sonnet seems to me the most stately and concentrated in the whole volume. It is the sublimity of a despair not to be relieved by utterance. Sonnet 253. Soleasi nel mio cor. Petrarch. She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine, A noble lady in a humble home, And now her time for heavenly bliss has come, 'T is I am mortal proved, and she divine. The soul that all i