Was andere dazu sagen - Rezension schreiben
Es wurden keine Rezensionen gefunden.
Andere Ausgaben - Alle anzeigen
ähnlich beauty Betrachtung Bild Brawne Brief Brüder cloud cold Complete Works deep Dichter Dichtung dream eigenen Eindrücke einfachen Einheit einmal Element Empfindung Endymion Erscheinung erst eyes Fanny feel findet flowers form Forman Freude fühlen full ganzen Gedanken Gedicht Gefühl Geliebte gerade geschildert gibt gleich gleichsam great gust half hand have heart heißt human Hyperion Innern Intensität Isabella Keats know könnte körperlich Kraft Lamia Leben Leidenschaft lich Liebe liegt life light little Lorenzo love made make mean Menschen menschliche mind more muß Natur neueren Pale physiologische pleasure poet poetry power rein sagen sagt scheint Schilderung Schmerz Schönheit schwach seen sense Sensualismus shade Shelley side Sinne sinnliche sinnliche Empfindung soft Sonett soul Stärke Stellen Stimmung sweet Symbol Teil things think thought Traum visions voice vollen Vorstellung warm weniger Wesens wieder wind wohl Words Wordsworth world Zustand
Seite 68 - Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Seite 27 - A poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence, because he has no Identity — he is continually in for and filling some other Body — The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute; the poet has none, no identity — he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's Creatures.
Seite 27 - A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no identity : he is continually in for, and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, and men and women who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute ; the poet has none, no identity. He is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's creatures.
Seite 18 - Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
Seite 26 - ... it has no self — it is every thing and nothing — It has no character — it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated — It has as much delight in conceiving an lago as an Imogen.
Seite 30 - MY HEART aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk...
Seite 25 - Yes, I remember when the changeful earth, And twice five summers on my mind had stamped The faces of the moving year, even then I held unconscious intercourse with beauty Old as creation, drinking in a pure Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths Of curling mist, or from the level plain Of waters coloured by impending clouds.
Seite 41 - Let the mad poets say whate'er they please Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, There is not such a treat among them all, Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, As a real woman, lineal indeed From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.
Seite 23 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Seite 29 - Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, Save from one gradual solitary gust Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, As if the ebbing air had but one wave...