Papers on literature and art (Google eBook)

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Page 40 - For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one!
Page 40 - In speech (which I have not) to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this "Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, "Or there exceed the mark...
Page 39 - Fra Pandolf" by design: for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I...
Page 39 - That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra' Pandolf s hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra
Page 77 - Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim...
Page 40 - Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together.
Page 78 - Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all...
Page 157 - Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust...
Page 154 - From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows.
Page 158 - Durer, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and -in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies ; Dead he is not, but departed, for the Artist never dies.

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