Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays

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Macmillan and Company, 1874 - 305 Seiten

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Seite 131 - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth...
Seite 278 - Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins: Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Seite 131 - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
Seite 41 - Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down ; he fleeth also as a shadow and continueth not.
Seite 230 - Gently o'er the accustomed oak; Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green...
Seite 149 - REMEMBER now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them...
Seite 253 - To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, Within doors, or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own — Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half.
Seite 189 - The use of this feigned history hath been to give some shadow of satisfaction to the mind of man in those points wherein the nature of things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the soul...
Seite 52 - Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; And hermits are contented with their cells ; And students with their pensive citadels ; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom High as the highest peak of Furness-fells Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : In truth, the prison unto which we doom Ourselves no prison is...
Seite 51 - Then up I rose, And dragged to earth, both branch and bough with crash And merciless ravage, and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being...

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