Life, letters, and literary remains, of John Keats, Volume 2 |
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Page 77
... the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment . This was the case when I was in England ; I cannot recollect , without shuddering , the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's , and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead ...
... the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment . This was the case when I was in England ; I cannot recollect , without shuddering , the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's , and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead ...
Autres éditions - Tout afficher
Life, letters, and literary remains, of John Keats, Volume 1 Richard Monckton Milnes (1st baron Houghton.) Affichage du livre entier - 1848 |
Expressions et termes fréquents
1st Knight Albert Auranthe bear beauty Bedhampton Bellanaine Bertha breathe bright Castle Conrad dare DEAR BROWN death doth Duke Eban EDWARD MOXON Elfinan Emperor Enter Erminia Ethelbert Exeunt Exit eyes faery fair fair lady fame Farewell father fear feel flowers genius George Keats Gersa give Glocester Gonfred Hampstead hand happy Hast hear heard heart Heaven honour hope hour Hungarian hush Huzza Imaus Isle of Wight JOHN KEATS Kaims Keats's lady Lamia leave Leigh Hunt letter lips literary live look Lord Ludolph Maud mind morning never noble o'er Otho pain pale Physician poem poor pr'ythee Prince Princess quiet SCENE Severn Shanklin Sigifred sire sister sleep smile soft soul speak spirits Steephill Stephen sweet sword tears tell thee thine thing thou thought to-day twas whisper wings word write written
Fréquemment cités
Page 103 - He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
Page 25 - I have given up Hyperion — there were too many Miltonic inversions in it — Miltonic verse cannot be written but in an artful, or, rather, artist's humour. I wish to give myself up to other sensations. English ought to be kept up.
Page 99 - And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 440 A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.
Page 260 - I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving! O, what could it grieve for ? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet ! why should you die — Why should you leave me, sweet bird ! why?
Page 269 - I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.
Page 291 - It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Page 269 - I saw pale kings and princes too. Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!' I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side.
Page 108 - Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong, They learn in suffering what they teach in song.
Page 301 - Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell: No God, no Demon of severe response Deigns to reply from heaven or from Hell — Then to my human heart I turn at once — Heart! thou and I are here sad and alone; Say, wherefore did I laugh?
Page 277 - They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings: O folly! What is Love? and where is it? And for that poor Ambition! it springs From a man's little heart's short fever-fit; For Poesy! — no, — she has not a joy, — At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep'd in honied indolence; O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense! And once more came they by; — alas! wherefore?