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Page 542 - The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself; * Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind.
Page 333 - They that go down to the sea in ships, and do business in great waters, These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.
Page 111 - Its touches of beauty should never be halfway, thereby making the reader breathless, instead of content. The rise, the progress, the setting of Imagery should, like the sun, come natural to him, shine over him, and set soberly, although in magnificence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it is easier to think what poetry should be, than to write it— And this leads me to Another axiom— That if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all...
Page 99 - Then anon the air began to wax clear and the sun to shine fair and bright, the which was right in the Frenchmen's eyes and on the Englishmen's backs. When the Genoese were assembled together and began to approach, they made a great leap and cry to abash the Englishmen, but they stood still and stirred not for all that.
Page 110 - He must first prove that Caliban's poetry is unnatural. This, with me, completely overturns his objections. The fact is, he and Shelley are hurt, and perhaps justly, at my not having showed them the affair officiously; and, from several hints I have had, they appear much disposed to dissect and anatomise any trip or slip I may have made.
Page 115 - Even if my body would recover of itself, this would prevent it. The very thing which I want to live most for will be a great occasion of my death. I cannot help it. Who can help it? Were I in health it would make me ill, and how can I bear it in my state ? I...
Page 111 - I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity ; it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
Page 109 - I hope soon to be able to resume my work — I have endeavoured to do so once or twice; but to no purpose. Instead of Poetry, I have a swimming in my head and feel all the effects of a Mental debauch, lowness of Spirits, anxiety to go on without the power to do so, which does not at all tend to my ultimate progression.
Page 444 - They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.