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Page 213 - She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.
Page 210 - Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.
Page 512 - And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.
Page 147 - A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no identity ; he is continually in for, and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, and men and women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute ; the poet has none, no identity. He is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's creatures.
Page 152 - The Genius of Poetry must work out its own salvation in a man. It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself. That which is creative must create itself.
Page 147 - A poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence, because he has no Identity — he is continually in for and filling some other Body — The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute; the poet has none, no identity — he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's Creatures.
Page 17 - Goldsmith's plain narrative will please again and again. I would say to Robertson what an old tutor of a college said to one of his pupils : ' Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.
Page 48 - And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould ; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Page 210 - Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.
Page 159 - THE SEA. IT keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. Oh ye ! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea...