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Página 35 - ... gentle dimplement, (As if God's finger touched but did not press In making England) such an up and down Of verdure, — nothing too much up or down, A ripple of land; such little hills, the sky Can stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields climb; Such nooks of valleys lined with orchises, Fed full of noises by invisible streams; And open pastures where you scarcely tell White daisies from white dew, — at intervals The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing out Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade,...
Página 2 - When scarcely I was four years old, my life A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail; She could not bear the joy of giving life, The mother's rapture slew her.
Página 163 - A little overgrown (I think there is), Their sole work is to represent the age, Their age, not Charlemagne's - this live, throbbing age, That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires, And spends more passion, more heroic heat, Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing-rooms, Than Roland with his knights at Roncesvalles. To flinch from modern varnish, coat or flounce, Cry out for togas and the picturesque, Is fatal - foolish too.
Página 164 - Never flinch, But still, unscrupulously epic, catch Upon the burning lava of a song The full-veined, heaving, double-breasted Age . That, when the next shall come, the men of that May touch the impress with reverent hand, and say ' Behold, —behold the paps we all have sucked ! This bosom seems to beat still, or at least It sets ours beating : this is living art, Which thus presents and thus records true life.
Página 397 - shalt thou write My curse to-night. Because thou hast strength to see and hate A foul thing done within thy gate.' ' Not so,' I answered once again. ' To curse, choose men. For I, a woman, have only known How the heart melts and the tears run down.
Página 162 - An age of scum, spooned off the richer past, An age of patches for old gaberdines, An age of mere transition, meaning nought Except that what succeeds must shame it quite If God please. That's wrong thinking, to my mind, And wrong thoughts make poor poems. Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.
Página 254 - I felt the wind soft from the land of souls ; The old miraculous mountains heaved in sight, One straining past another along the shore, The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of seas, And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing peak, They stood. I watched, beyond that Tyrian belt...