Ethics and Aesthetics of Modern Poetry

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Smith, Elder, & Company, 1878 - Literary Criticism - 237 pages

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Page 44 - To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain...
Page 223 - Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown By Nature ; men endowed with highest gifts, The vision and the faculty divine ; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse...
Page 75 - Pope, as harmony itself exact, In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace, That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, Levied a tax of wonder and applause, Even on the fools that trampled on their laws. But he (his musical finesse was such, So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) Made poetry a mere mechanic art ; And every warbler has his tune by heart.
Page 148 - 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...
Page 234 - 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 127 - 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 220 - 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 44 - 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 175 - 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...

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