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admirers Amiel answer appear beauty believe Byron called century character charm Chaucer classic comes common Count criticism dealing death English estimate excellence expression eyes faults feel follow France French gift give given Goethe Gray Gray's hand happiness Harriet historic human ideas importance interesting Italy Journal Keats kind language less letters living look manner matter means Milton mind moral nature never novel once passage passed passion perfect perhaps personality poems poet poetic poetry praise present produced Professor prose question readers religion rest seems seen sense seriousness Shakespeare Shelley Shelley's society sort soul speak spirit style superiority sure tells things thought tion true truth verse virtue vogue volume whole Wordsworth worth writes wrote
Страница 47 - Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord its various tone, Each spring its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Страница 200 - Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday.
Страница 49 - Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Страница 38 - I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem...
Страница 191 - What, in ill thoughts again ? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither : Ripeness is all : Come on.
Страница 19 - Led on the eternal Spring. Not that fair field Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain To seek her through the world...
Страница 1 - The future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay.
Страница 18 - Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf 'ning clamour in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?