Talks on the Study of Literature

Voorkant
Houghton, Mifflin, 1897 - 260 pagina's
 

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Pagina 237 - I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware!
Pagina 237 - THE skies they were ashen and sober ; The leaves they were crisped and sere, The leaves they were withering and sere ; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year ; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir : It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Pagina 152 - He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul, All the images of Nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too.
Pagina 75 - Fear no more the frown o' the great: Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Pagina 76 - Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, That trade in metal of the purest mould ; The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks Without control can pick his riches up, And in his house heap...
Pagina 115 - The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise...
Pagina 104 - Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night...
Pagina 239 - Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell: Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor...
Pagina 228 - ... winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous...
Pagina 230 - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,— when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

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