What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
Letters and Literary Remains of Edward Fitzgerald, Volume 1
No preview available - 2015
Letters & Literary Remains of Edward Fitzgerald, Volume 3
Edward Fitzgerald,William Aldis Wright
No preview available - 2016
Letters and Literary Remains of Edward Fitzgerald, Volume 5
No preview available - 2015
admire Alfred Alfred Tennyson Beccles Bedfordshire believe Bernard Barton Book Boulge C. E. Norton Calderon Carlyle Carlyle's Catullus Charles Lamb copy Crabbe Crabbe's dare say dear Allen dear Barton dear Cowell dear Donne dear Frederic dear Laurence dear old dear Pollock dear Sir delightful Don Quixote doubt Dunwich Edition England English Euphranor Eyes fancy feel fellow FitzGerald Garden Geldestone George Crabbe give glad Handel hear heard Ipswich James Spedding John Allen Kemble letter live London look Lowell Lowestoft Lucretius mean Naseby never night Omar perhaps picture pleasant Poems Poet poor portrait pretty remember scarce seems seen sent Sophocles Spedding Suffolk suppose sure talk tell Tenby Tennyson Thackeray things thought told Verse volume W. B. Donne week Wherstead wish wonderful Woodbridge word Wordsworth write written wrote yesterday
Page 11 - Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Page 14 - Fountain heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
Page 14 - HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy ; Oh ! sweetest melancholy.
Page 10 - ASK me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more...
Page 11 - ... atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.
Page 280 - Mrs. Browning's death is rather a relief to me, I must say : no more Aurora Leighs, thank God ! A woman of real genius, I know ; but what is the upshot of it all ! She and her sex had better mind the kitchen and the children ; and perhaps the poor. Except in such things as little novels, they only devote themselves to what men do much better, leaving that which men do worse or not at all.
Page 337 - But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Page 50 - T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. " And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. " My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
Page 7 - And sometimes a tear Will rise in each eye, Seeing the two old friends So merrily — So merrily! And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down on the ashes We kneel on the knee, Praying together! Thus, then, live I, Till, 'mid all the gloom, By heaven! the bold sun Is with me in the room, Shining, shining! Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green! I jump up, like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, The meadows again!
Page 21 - Tennyson has been in town for some time : he has been making fresh poems, which are finer, they say, than any he has done. But I believe he is chiefly meditating on the purging and subliming of what he has already done : and repents that he has published at all yet. It is fine to see how in each succeeding poem the smaller ornaments and fancies drop away, and leave the grand ideas single.