What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
able American Anatomy of Melancholy appeal authors beauty become begin better born classics coming course criticism delightful demand dreams editions eighteenth century English enjoy example experience expression eyes fact fall feel forget George give hand heart human imaginative importance kind less literary literature living looking Mark master material mean mere merely method mind miss mysterious natural never novel novelists once one's passing perhaps philosopher pleasure poet poetry present probably prose prove published question readers realism reality realize reason regard remain remember romance seems selection Shakespeare shelves significance soul spirit stories success surely taste tears thing thought tion true truth turn universe unread verse vital volume wonder writers written young
Page 63 - Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
Page 65 - WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample...
Page 62 - Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life...
Page 62 - I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
Page 55 - We'll owe twopence, he said. — Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir. She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: — Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet.
Page 63 - Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done...
Page 55 - Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.
Page 98 - If I were not a king, I would be a university man ; * " and if it were so that I must be a prisoner, if I might have my wish, I would desire to have no other prison than that library, and to be chained together with so many good authors et mortuis magistris.
Page 56 - Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar. All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet. I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He...
Page 46 - Where is the singer whose large notes and clear Can heal and arm and plenish and sustain ? Lo, one with empty music floods the ear, And one, the heart refreshing, tires the brain. And idly tuneful, the loquacious throng Flutter and twitter, prodigal of time, And little masters make a toy of song Till grave men weary of the sound of rhyme.