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Page 34
... soul outlived the body . He awaited the magical work full of scepticism . He expected nothing more than an air of romance , an illusion as of the stage , that might capture the consenting imagination . for an hour . The evoker of ...
... soul outlived the body . He awaited the magical work full of scepticism . He expected nothing more than an air of romance , an illusion as of the stage , that might capture the consenting imagination . for an hour . The evoker of ...
Page 49
... souls less sensitive . Our souls that were once naked to the winds of heaven are now thickly clad , and have learned to build a house and light a fire upon its hearth , and shut to the doors and windows . The winds can , indeed , make ...
... souls less sensitive . Our souls that were once naked to the winds of heaven are now thickly clad , and have learned to build a house and light a fire upon its hearth , and shut to the doors and windows . The winds can , indeed , make ...
Page 50
... souls less sensitive . Our souls that were once naked to the winds of heaven are now thickly clad , and have learned to build a house and light a fire upon its hearth , and shut to the doors and windows . The winds . can , indeed , make ...
... souls less sensitive . Our souls that were once naked to the winds of heaven are now thickly clad , and have learned to build a house and light a fire upon its hearth , and shut to the doors and windows . The winds . can , indeed , make ...
Page 54
... souls moving in its branches instead of sap , and among its leaves all the fowl of the air , and on its highest bough one white fowl wearing a crown . When I went home I took from the shelf a translation of The Book of Concealed Mystery ...
... souls moving in its branches instead of sap , and among its leaves all the fowl of the air , and on its highest bough one white fowl wearing a crown . When I went home I took from the shelf a translation of The Book of Concealed Mystery ...
Page 66
... soul , that made William Morris , who seems to me the one perfectly happy and fortunate poet of mod- ern times , celebrate the Green Tree and the goddess Habundia , and wells and enchanted waters in so many books . In The Well at the ...
... soul , that made William Morris , who seems to me the one perfectly happy and fortunate poet of mod- ern times , celebrate the Green Tree and the goddess Habundia , and wells and enchanted waters in so many books . In The Well at the ...
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Common terms and phrases
ancient Aran Islands artist beauty become believe Blake body cave colour comes create Daemon Dante death delight desire divine Divine Comedy drama dream ecstasy emotion enchanted energy eternal eyes Faerie Queene fire FLORENCE FARR fountain genius happy heart images imagination intellectual Ireland Irish J. M. Synge knew labour Lady Gregory light literature living look lovers lyric magic Matthew Arnold memory mind modern mood moral move movement nature never painting pass passion perfect perhaps play players poems poet poetry praise psaltery remember rhythm Richard II saint Scholar Gipsy seemed shadow Shakespeare Shelley sing sleep song sorrow soul speak Spenser spoke stars story strange symbols Synge theatre things thought tion tradition Tree understand verses vision voice W. B. YEATS wandering William Blake woman women words write wrote young Young Ireland
Popular passages
Page 127 - Tired with all these, for restful death I cry: As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill.
Page 107 - I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow...
Page 9 - Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young and fair, Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
Page 160 - For mercy, pity, peace, and love, Is God our Father dear ; And mercy, pity, peace, and love, Is man, His child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity a human face ; And Love, the human form divine ; And Peace, the human dress.
Page 84 - That thus enchains us to permitted ill. We might be otherwise, we might be all We dream of happy, high, majestical. Where is the love, beauty and truth we seek, But in our mind? and if we were not weak, Should we be less in deed than in desire?' 'Ay, if we were not weak — and we aspire How vainly to be strong!' said Maddalo; 'You talk Utopia.
Page 215 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows ; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine...
Page 88 - I dare not guess ; but in this life Of error, ignorance, and strife, Where nothing is, but all things seem, And we the shadows of the dream, It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.
Page 28 - The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away, While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air: For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered away!
Page 90 - Fury The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, Gazing on one another : so are we. As from the rose which the pale priestess kneels To gather for her festal crown of flowers The aerial crimson falls, flushing her cheek, So from our victim's destined agony The shade which is our form invests us round, — Else we are shapeless as our mother Night.
Page 488 - We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.