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Page 287 - That light whose smile kindles the universe, That beauty in which all things work and move, That benediction which the eclipsing curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which, through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.
Page 160 - Ah Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun ; Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad ? And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
Page 143 - My conceit of his person was never increased toward him by his place, or honours: but I have and do reverence him, for the greatness that was only proper to himself, in that he seemed to me ever, by his work, one of the greatest men, and most worthy of admiration, that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed, that God would give him strength; for greatness he could not want.
Page 149 - It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log, at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall, and die that night; It was the plant, and flower of light. In small proportions, we just beauties see: And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Page 287 - ... bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move...
Page 281 - The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven, Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
Page 457 - I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Page 154 - To draw no envy, SHAKESPEARE, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much.
Page 217 - He was perfumed like a milliner ; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took't away again ; — Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff : — and still he smil'd and talk'd . And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by.