These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye;
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness sensations sweet,
Felt in the Blood, and felt among the heart.
-William Wordsworth,
Lines Composed a Few Miles
above Tintern Abbey, 1798
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Beauty Is Truth
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth Eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. -John Keats (1795-1821), Ode on a Grecian Urn |
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Verdurous Gloom
But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. -John Keats (1795-1821), Ode to a Nightingale |
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Summer Retreat
Or in my boat I lie Moored to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. -Matthew Arnold (1822-1888), The Scholar-Gipsy |
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Winter Grief
Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year. The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; -Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), Adonais |
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North Wind
Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. -Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), The Snow-Storm |
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Silver Shrine
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim--saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thouh think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. -John Keats (1795-1821), The Eve of St. Agnes |
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Mind's Work
And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. -Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), The Snow-Storm |