David Gray, and Other Essays: Chiefly on PoetrySampson, Low, Son, and Marston, 1868 - 318 Seiten |
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Seite 2
... heart anon Leaps with the bliss he looks upon ! - Go forth , O perfect Heart and Eyes , Stand in the crowd , and melodise ! HAT then is the Poet , or Seer , as.
... heart anon Leaps with the bliss he looks upon ! - Go forth , O perfect Heart and Eyes , Stand in the crowd , and melodise ! HAT then is the Poet , or Seer , as.
Seite 5
... heart in the exquisite trouble of perfect perception . And behold ! in due time , his inspiration becomes godlike , insomuch as the invisible relation is incorporated in actual types , takes shape and being , and breathes and moves ...
... heart in the exquisite trouble of perfect perception . And behold ! in due time , his inspiration becomes godlike , insomuch as the invisible relation is incorporated in actual types , takes shape and being , and breathes and moves ...
Seite 11
... heart beats in great glorified throbs , with no tremor ; his speech is stately and crystal clear ; he is for ever referring man to his Maker ; for ever comparing our stature with that of angels . reasoners . Mark , further , that his ...
... heart beats in great glorified throbs , with no tremor ; his speech is stately and crystal clear ; he is for ever referring man to his Maker ; for ever comparing our stature with that of angels . reasoners . Mark , further , that his ...
Seite 22
... , Keats more than Words- worth . The personal cry , so sharp , so rapid , so genuine , can never fail to find an echo in our hearts . The manly exclamation of Burns , - For pity's sake , sweet bird , nae mair , 22 22 THE POET , OR SEER .
... , Keats more than Words- worth . The personal cry , so sharp , so rapid , so genuine , can never fail to find an echo in our hearts . The manly exclamation of Burns , - For pity's sake , sweet bird , nae mair , 22 22 THE POET , OR SEER .
Seite 23
... heart is broken ! the fetid breath of Sappho , screaming , - Cold shiverings o'er me pass , Chill sweats across me fly ! I am greener than grass , And breathless seem to die ! the passionate voice of Catullus , —- 66 Cœli , Lesbia ...
... heart is broken ! the fetid breath of Sappho , screaming , - Cold shiverings o'er me pass , Chill sweats across me fly ! I am greener than grass , And breathless seem to die ! the passionate voice of Catullus , —- 66 Cœli , Lesbia ...
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Häufige Begriffe und Wortgruppen
Alfred de Musset Andrew artistic beautiful breath calm Campsie fells Catullus cold contemporary truth cries dark David Gray Dean Prior dear death divine dream emotion eternal truth exquisite eyes face feel friends Glasgow God's hear heard heart heaven Herrick Hesperides hope human immoral insincere intellectual Keats Leaves of Grass Lesbia light literary literature living London LONDON POEM look Lord Lord Houghton Luggie lyrical Merkland Milnes Milton mind modern moral Mysie mystery nature never night noble numbers once pale passion perfect Philoctetes picture pleasure poem poet poet's poetic poetry pure ROBERT BUCHANAN sake seemed Seer sight silence sincerity sings smile song Sophocles soul sound speech spiritual strange Student sweet Sydney Dobell sympathy tears thee things thou thought tion true utterance verses vision voice Walt Whitman weary wonder wondrous word Wordsworth write wrote young
Beliebte Passagen
Seite 24 - And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Seite 25 - Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow : The world may find the Spring by following her ; For other print her airy steps ne'er left : Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ! But like the soft west-wind she shot along, And where she went the flowers took thickest root, As she had sowed them with her odorous foot...
Seite 213 - Immense have been the preparations for me, , • Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me. Cycles" ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it...
Seite 29 - For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still sad music of Humanity! Not harsh, nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue! And I have felt A Presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts! a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused; Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of Man...
Seite 43 - Prone on the ground, as since, but on his rear, Circular base of rising folds that towered Fold above fold, a surging maze, his head Crested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes ; With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass Floated redundant...
Seite 39 - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Seite 212 - In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
Seite 32 - He holds on firmly to some thread of life — (It is the life to lead perforcedly) Which runs across some vast distracting orb Of glory on either side that meagre thread...
Seite 39 - Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Seite 28 - In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 0 sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!