O magic sleep O comfortable bird, That broodest oer the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hushd and smooth.
O magic sleep O comfortable bird, That broodest oer the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hushd and smooth.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
Thou, silent form, doth tease us out of thought As doth eternity Cold Pastoral.
Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year There are four seasons in the mind of man.
O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts.
Literature is the Thought of thinking Souls.
The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness -- if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor -- but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibers of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories