You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
Come near; I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
There are a few of the open-air spirits; the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
In mockery I have set A powerful emblem up, And sing it rhyme upon rhyme In mockery of a time Half dead at the top.
The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.
How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves; that lamp is from the tomb.
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
Education is not filling
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
Great literature has always been written in a like spirit, and is, indeed, the Forgiveness of Sin, and when we find it becoming the Accusation of Sin, as in George Eliot, who plucks her Tito in pieces with as much assurance as if he had been clockwork, literature has begun to change into something else.
One often hears of a horse that shivers with terror, or of a dog that howls at something a mans eyes cannot see, and men who live primitive lives where instinct does the work of reason are fully conscious,of many things we cannot perceive at all. As life becomes more orderly, more deliberate, the supernatural world sinks farther away.
Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.
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