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Page 200 - Merrily, merrily goes the bark On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea.
Page 68 - And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour : and they made their lives bitter with hard bondage, in mortar, and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field : all their service, wherein they made them serve, was with rigour.
Page 27 - My story is an essay on decorative art. It reacts against the crude brutality of plain realism. It is poisonous if you like, but you cannot deny that it is also perfect, and perfection is what we artists aim at.
Page 125 - Every year it is more manifest that we need to have more knowledge and to get it soon in order to escape, on the one hand, from the cruelty and waste of irresponsible competition and the licentious use of wealth and, on the other, from the tyranny and the spiritual death of an iron-bound socialism.
Page 98 - art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!
Page 27 - we artists' do not always hit what we aim at, and despite his confident claim to unerring artistic marksmanship, one must hazard the opinion, that in this case Mr Wilde has 'shot wide.' There is indeed more of 'poison' than of 'perfection' in Dorian Gray. The central idea is an excellent, if not exactly novel, one; and a finer art, say that of Nathaniel Hawthorne, would have made a striking and satisfying story of it.
Page 273 - My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone; The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp.
Page 260 - I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.
Page 98 - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more.