The Life and Letters of John KeatsE. Moxon, 1867 - 363 стор. |
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Сторінка 2
... won his place in the first ranks of English poets will not deny the promise of his candidature . When a man has had a fair field of existence before him and free winch many scope for the exhibition of his energies , it becomes.
... won his place in the first ranks of English poets will not deny the promise of his candidature . When a man has had a fair field of existence before him and free winch many scope for the exhibition of his energies , it becomes.
Сторінка 10
... fair morning . Thou didst die * A half - blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate . But this is past thou art among the stars Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning mars , Above the ingrate ...
... fair morning . Thou didst die * A half - blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate . But this is past thou art among the stars Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning mars , Above the ingrate ...
Сторінка 11
... fair veins in sab Still warble , dying swan The enchanting tale , the " composition 1 early poems ideal sensual 14 L It might have been expected that the impressible nature of Keats would incline him to erotic composition , but his ...
... fair veins in sab Still warble , dying swan The enchanting tale , the " composition 1 early poems ideal sensual 14 L It might have been expected that the impressible nature of Keats would incline him to erotic composition , but his ...
Сторінка 18
... fair paradise of Nature's light ? In the calm grandeur of a sober line We see the waving of the mountain pine , And when a tale is beautifully staid , We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade . He had yet to learn that Art should purify ...
... fair paradise of Nature's light ? In the calm grandeur of a sober line We see the waving of the mountain pine , And when a tale is beautifully staid , We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade . He had yet to learn that Art should purify ...
Сторінка 21
... I , that do ever feel athirst for glory , Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass , as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins . Oh ! how I love , on a fair summer's JOHN KEATS . 21.
... I , that do ever feel athirst for glory , Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass , as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins . Oh ! how I love , on a fair summer's JOHN KEATS . 21.
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The Life & Letters of John Keats Richard Monckton Milnes (Baron Houghton),John Keats Повний перегляд - 1927 |
Загальні терміни та фрази
affectionate friend appears AUCHTERCAIRN beautiful breath brother Brown Charles Cowden Clarke clouds comfort cottage DEAR BAILEY DEAR REYNOLDS death delight Devonshire Dilke dream Elgin Marbles endeavour Endymion eyes fair fame fancy feel flowers genius George George Keats give Hampstead hand happiness Haydon head hear heart heaven honour hope human Hunt Hyperion imagination Isle Isle of Wight JOHN KEATS Kean Keats's Kirkcudbright Lamia leave Leigh Hunt letter literary live look Lord Byron melancholy Milton mind morning mortal Muse nature never night numbers pain Paradise Lost passed passion perhaps pleasure poem poet poetical poetry Port Patrick Saturn seems Severn Shakespeare Shelley sincere friend sister sleep Sonnet soon sort soul speak spirit Staffa sure sweet TEIGNMOUTH tell thee thing thou thought tion verse walk wish word Wordsworth write written wrote
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Сторінка 204 - She found me roots of relish sweet. And honey wild, and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said — 'I love thee true!
Сторінка 233 - Urania, and fit audience find, though few. But drive far off the barbarous dissonance Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian Bard In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned Both harp and voice ; nor could the Muse defend Her son.
Сторінка 204 - La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.
Сторінка 80 - The hand that mocked them, / and the heart that fed: // And on the pedestal / these words appear: // "My name is Ozymandias, / king of kings: // Look on my works, ye Mighty, / and despair 1
Сторінка 347 - One hand she press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake...
Сторінка 118 - Man — of convincing one's nerves that the world is full of Misery and Heartbreak, Pain, Sickness and oppression — whereby this Chamber of Maiden Thought becomes gradually darken'd and at the same time on all sides of it many doors are set open — but all dark — all leading to dark passages — We see not the balance of good and evil. We are in a Mist. We are now in that state — We feel the
Сторінка 345 - 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...
Сторінка 30 - ON THE SEA It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.
Сторінка 36 - I see, men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.
Сторінка 181 - 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.