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Admetos Alkestis ancient Arthur Arthur Hugh Clough beautiful beneath breath Burns Byron charms cloud Clusium Coleridge Compare criticism dark dead dear death deep doth dream Dryden earth English Epistle Essay Etruscan Euripides Excalibur eyes fair flowers glory grace Greece Greek hand happy hath hear heard heart heaven Herakles hill John Keats John Milton Keats King King Arthur L'Allegro land Lars Porsena light live look Lord Lycidas lyric Matthew Arnold mighty Milton mind moon morn mountain Muse Myths never night noble o'er pain poem poet poetic poetry Pope Pope's Roman Rome rose round Samian wine shade Shakespeare Shelley silent sing Sir Bedivere smile song Sonnet soul sound spirit stanza sweet tale tears Tennyson thee thine things thou art thought thro toil Venice verse voice wild wind word Wordsworth youth
Página 13 - Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine: But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
Página 186 - I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, 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!
Página 79 - Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 50 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
Página 192 - These beauteous forms Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration...
Página 297 - More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
Página 15 - ON HIS BLINDNESS WHEN I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts. Who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state...
Página 72 - For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn...
Página 83 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven, As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm ; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, • Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Página 193 - What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.