Formative Types in English Poetry: The Earl Lectures of 1917

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Houghton Mifflin, 1918 - English poetry - 310 pages
 

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Page 153 - Happy the man*, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire.
Page 177 - Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw : Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite...
Page 210 - 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.
Page 248 - Behold, ye speak an idle thing : Ye never knew the sacred dust I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing...
Page 242 - It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent...
Page 253 - The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Page 28 - For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet...
Page 179 - For forms of government let fools contest ; Whate'er is best administered is best : For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right...
Page 266 - The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Page 178 - Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again...

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