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Page 658 - Blessed are the eyes which see the things that ye see: For I tell you that many prophets and kings have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them ; and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.
Page 461 - From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. WILD bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro...
Page 753 - My Lord, When I lost the freedom of my cell, which was my College, 'yet I found some degree of it in my quiet country parsonage : but I am weary of the noise and oppositions of this place; and indeed, God and Nature did not intend me for contentions, but for study and quietness.
Page 553 - For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem, —a thought so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing.
Page 342 - Before I go whence I shall not return, Even to the land of darkness and the shadow of death ; A land of darkness, as darkness itself; And of the shadow of death, without any order, And where the light is as darkness.
Page 339 - ... moment, at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view, at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable, at the cautious selections and rejections, at the painful erasures and interpolations — in a word, at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for sceneshifting, the step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred constitute the properties of the literary histrio.
Page 110 - All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
Page 339 - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and. curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " "Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more.
Page 339 - Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought - at the true purposes seized only at the last moment - at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view...