classic: results 121–142 of 142

Towards the setting sun the two thus went on their journey…

Like as the traveller, who, when the sun is approaching its setting,

Fixes his eyes on it once again ere quickly it vanish…

Now when the foreign judge had been by the minister questioned

As to his people's distress, and how long their exile had lasted,

Thus made answer the man: "Of no recent date are our sorrows;

Since of the gathering bitter of years our people have drunken…

Here the three men, however, still sat conversing together,

With mine host of the Lion, the village doctor, and pastor;

And their talk was still on the same unvarying subject,

Turning it this way and that, and viewing from every direction.

Thus entertaining themselves, the men sat talking. The mother

Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the dwelling,

First on the settle of stone, whereon 'twas his wont to he seated.

When she perceived him not there, she went farther to look in the stable…

Thus did the modest son slip away from the angry upbraiding;

But in the tone he had taken at first, the father continued…

Ow when of comely mien the son came into the chamber,

Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher upon him,

And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms expression,

Scrutinized well his face and form and his general bearing.

Truly, I never have seen the market and street so deserted!

How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished!

There was a child went forth every day,

And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,

And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day…

Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet.

here is one thought enough to kill me—I have been well, healthy, alert, &c, walking with her—and now—the knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem are great enemies to the recovery of the stomach. There, you rogue, I put you to the torture…

A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity—he is continually in for—and filling some other Body—The Sun, the Moon, the Sea, and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute—the poet has none; no identity—he is certainly the most unpoetical of all of God's Creatures.

…but it is easier to think what Poetry should be than to write it…

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces.

I have an idea that a Man might pass a very pleasant life in this manner—let him on any certain day read a certain Page of full Poesy or distilled Prose and let him wander with it, and muse upon it, and reflect from it, and bring home to it, and prophesy upon it, and dream upon it—untill it becomes stale—but when will it do so? Never…

I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination—What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth—whether it existed before or not…

The great laws take and effuse without argument,

I am of the same style, for I am their friend,

I love them quits and quits… I do not halt and make salaams.

I found a ball of grass among the hay

And progged it as I passed and went away;

And when I looked I fancied something stirred,

And turned again and hoped to catch the bird…

I am! yet what I am none cares or knows…

On 25 March an unusually strange event occurred in St. Petersburg.

For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.

For he rolls upon prank to work it in.

For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.

For this he performs in ten degrees.

Strong is the horse upon his speed…