Ethics and Aesthetics of Modern Poetry

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Smith, Elder, & Company, 1878 - English poetry - 237 pages
 

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Page 42 - But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Page 232 - And, lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they hear thy words, but they do them not.
Page 7 - But evil on itself shall back recoil, And mix no more with goodness, when at last, Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, It shall be in eternal restless change Self-fed and self-consumed. If this fail, The pillared firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
Page 125 - From jigging veins of rhyming mother wits And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, We'll lead you to the stately tent of war Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine Threatening the world with high astounding terms And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.
Page 218 - A set o' dull conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o
Page 8 - Time, force, and death, Do to this body what extremes you can ; But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it.
Page 218 - That's a' the learning I desire ; Then tho" I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though namely in attire, May touch the heart.
Page 147 - I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?' So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. 'Make me a cottage in the vale,' she said, 'Where I may mourn and pray.
Page 173 - 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. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days...
Page 147 - Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote, 'Mene, mene...

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