Alastor: Or, The Spirit of Solitude, and Other Poems

Shelley society, 1886 - 101 pàgines

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Pàgina xlix - Among those who attempt to exist without human sympathy, the pure and tender-hearted perish through the intensity and passion of their search after its communities, when the vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind, and torpid, are those unforeseeing multitudes who constitute, together with their own, the lasting misery and loneliness of the world. Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave. "The...
Pàgina 58 - The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows: Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.
Pàgina 60 - We rest — a dream has power to poison sleep ; We rise — one wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep ; Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away : It is the same ! — for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free ; Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow ; Nought may endure but Mutability.
Pàgina xlix - They who, deluded by no generous error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning with "human grief; these, and such" as they, have their apportioned curse.
Pàgina 46 - No sense, no motion, no divinity — A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings The breath of heaven did wander — a bright stream' Once fed with many-voiced waves— a dream Of youth which night and time have quenched for ever — Still, dark and dry, and unremembered now.
Pàgina 3 - Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, And my heart ever gazes on the depth Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, Hoping to still these obstinate questionings Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, Thy messenger, to render up the tale Of what we are.
Pàgina 14 - Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled The hues of heaven that canopied his bower Of yesternight ? the sounds that soothed his sleep, The mystery and the majesty of earth, The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven.
Pàgina 7 - His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps He like her shadow has pursued, where'er The red volcano overcanopies Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke...
Pàgina 10 - And spread her matting for his couch, and stole From duties and repose to tend his steps : — Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe To speak her love : — and watched his nightly sleep, Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath Of innocent dreams arose : then, when red morn Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned.
Pàgina 32 - Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine, A soul-dissolving odour, to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell, Silence and Twilight, here twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades, Like vaporous shapes half seen...

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