Aspects of Poetry: Being Lectures Delivered at Oxford

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1882 - 101 стор.

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Сторінка 69 - Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a day their withered hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood ; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that
Сторінка 71 - Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once-; And he, that might the vantage best have took, Found out the remedy. How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are
Сторінка 285 - Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown; It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own: Ah! why should we undo it? ' The treasured dreams of times long past We Ml keep them, winsome Marrow! For, when we 're there, although 't is fair, 'T will be another Yarrow!
Сторінка 215 - Who wishes, when hearing the real skylark, to be told that — " We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught
Сторінка 299 - Armor rusting in his halls On the blood of Clifford calls; — ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance — ' Bear me to the heart of France,' Is the longing of the shield." This, if no other of his poems, proves that he was not insensible to the thought that — "In our halls is
Сторінка 69 - but't is not so above: There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence.
Сторінка 44 - When Milton flung forth these lines — "How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled," do you suppose he could have quite
Сторінка 182 - Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power), A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor old Scotland's sake Some usefu* plan or book could make, Or sing a song at least.
Сторінка 63 - Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint; She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Сторінка 166 - our own ; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the coming calm erases, and whose traces remain only on the wrinkled sand which paves it. Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

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