Introduction to Poetry: Poetic Expression, Poetic Truth - the Progress of Poetry

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J. Murray, 1902 - English language - 174 pages
 

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Page 36 - Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Page 173 - But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn.
Page 95 - In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Page 28 - This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me.
Page 88 - mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean. Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm.
Page 31 - The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon.
Page 88 - Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge of the horizon to the zenith's height — the locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge of the dying year, to which this closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, vaulted with all thy congregated might of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh, hear!
Page 127 - What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
Page 97 - O my love ! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : Thou art not conquer'd ; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Page 98 - Eyes, look your last ! Arms, take your last embrace ! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide ! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark. Here's to my love ! \Drinks.} O true apothecary ! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.

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