"Acold" Quotes from Famous Books
 ... sea-banks narrowing Westward, while the sea gleams chill and still as death. Sharp and strange from inland sounds thy bitter note of battle, Blown between grim skies and waters sullen-souled, Till the baffled seas bear back, rocks roar and shingles rattle, Vexed and angered and anhungered and acold. Change thy note, and give the waves their will, and all the measure, Full and perfect, of the music of their might, Let it fill the bays with thunderous notes and throbs of pleasure, Shake the shores with passion, sound at once and smite. Sweet ...
— Poems and Ballads (Third Series) - Taken from The Collected Poetical Works of Algernon Charles - Swinburne--Vol. III • Algernon Charles Swinburne
... of sleep: But see how gable ends and parapets In gradual beauty and significance Emerge! And did you hear That little twitter-and-cheep, Breaking inordinately loud and clear On this still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere? 'Tis a first nest at matins! And behold A rakehell cat—how furtive and acold! A spent witch homing from some infamous dance— Obscene, quick-trotting, see her tip and fade Through shadowy railings into a pit of shade! And lo! a little wind and shy, The smell of ships (that ...
— The Song of the Sword - and Other Verses • W. E. Henley
... morning by the night-tide framed about, And the long-stored love of her bosom from her eyes is leaping out. But how fair is Sigurd the King that beside her beauty goes! How lovely is he shapen, how great his stature shows! How kind is the clasping right-hand, that hath smitten the battle acold! How kind are the awful eyen that no foeman durst behold! How sweet are the lips unsmiling, and the brow as the open day! What man can behold and believe it, that his life shall pass away? So he standeth proud by the high-seat, and the sun through ...
— The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs • William Morris
... is awake, and the sound of the song of the joy of her waking is rolled From afar to the star that recedes, from anear to the wastes of the wild wide shore. Her call is a trumpet compelling us homeward: if dawn in her east be acold, From the sea shall we crave not her grace to rekindle the life that it kindled before, Her breath to requicken, her bosom to rock us, her kisses to bless as of yore? For the wind, with his wings half open, at pause in the sky, neither fettered nor free, Leans waveward ...
— A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems • Algernon Charles Swinburne
... with the last farewell, Brings for Ascanius raiment wrought with picturing wool of gold, And Phrygian coat; nor will she have our honour wax acold, But loads him with the woven gifts, and such word sayeth she: 'Take these, fair boy; keep them to be my hands' last memory, The tokens of enduring love thy younger days did win From Hector's wife Andromache, the last gifts of thy kin. O thou, of my Astyanax ...
— The AEneids of Virgil - Done into English Verse • Virgil |
