The Life and Letters of John KeatsE. Moxon, 1867 - 363 страници |
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Страница 38
... poor a pinion of his wing . " Then again Enobarbus : " men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them , To suffer all alike . " The following applies well to Bertrand : " Yet he ...
... poor a pinion of his wing . " Then again Enobarbus : " men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them , To suffer all alike . " The following applies well to Bertrand : " Yet he ...
Страница 45
... Poor Bailey , scarcely ever well , has gone to bed , pleased that I am writing to you . To your brother John ( whom henceforth I shall consider as mine ) and to you , my dear friends , I shall ever feel grateful for having made known to ...
... Poor Bailey , scarcely ever well , has gone to bed , pleased that I am writing to you . To your brother John ( whom henceforth I shall consider as mine ) and to you , my dear friends , I shall ever feel grateful for having made known to ...
Страница 51
... poor Cripps . To a man of your nature such a letter as Haydon's must have been extremely cutting . What occasions the greater part of the world's quarrels ? Simply this : two minds meet , and do not understand each other time enough to ...
... poor Cripps . To a man of your nature such a letter as Haydon's must have been extremely cutting . What occasions the greater part of the world's quarrels ? Simply this : two minds meet , and do not understand each other time enough to ...
Страница 55
... Poor Johnny Moultrie can't be there . He is ill , I expect - but that's neither here nor there . All I can say , I wish him as well through it as I am like to be . For this fortnight I have been confined at Hampstead . Saturday evening ...
... Poor Johnny Moultrie can't be there . He is ill , I expect - but that's neither here nor there . All I can say , I wish him as well through it as I am like to be . For this fortnight I have been confined at Hampstead . Saturday evening ...
Страница 76
... Poor Shelley , I think he has his quota of good qualities . * * * Write soon to your most sin- cere friend and affectionate brother , JOHN . 23rd January , 1818 . MY DEAR BROTHERS , I was thinking what hindered me from writing so long ...
... Poor Shelley , I think he has his quota of good qualities . * * * Write soon to your most sin- cere friend and affectionate brother , JOHN . 23rd January , 1818 . MY DEAR BROTHERS , I was thinking what hindered me from writing so long ...
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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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Страница 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!
Страница 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.
Страница 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.
Страница 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
Страница 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...
Страница 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
Страница 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...
Страница 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.
Страница 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.
Страница 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.