The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Volume 1

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W. Pickering, 1838 - 362 pages
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No more published; the author collected material for a second volume, but destroyed it before his death.
 

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Page 88 - There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
Page 124 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; ' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies : But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
Page 89 - My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man — This was my sole resource, my only plan : Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
Page 250 - A little child, a limber elf, Singing, dancing to itself, A fairy thing with red round cheeks That always finds and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light...
Page 83 - Lyrical Ballads, in which it was agreed that my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic — yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief, for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.
Page 67 - So I returned and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter.
Page 234 - On the other side it seems to be Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that inoaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek — There is not wind enough to twirl The one...
Page 241 - And with low voice and doleful look These words did say: "In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel...
Page 233 - Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin grey cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill...
Page 233 - Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away.

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