The Penguin Book of Victorian Verse

The Penguin Book of Victorian Verse

Language: English

Pages: 0


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

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graves of (Keats and Shelley) 265 Gray, Thomas 374 great poets, power of 329 old age 108 Omar Khayyam 69, 275 recovery of inspiration 1 rhyme 255 Suckling, Sir John 243 Tennyson, Alfred (parody of) 123 traitor to radical cause 96 POLITICS, FUTILITY OF 135 (III iii) POMONA 239 PONDS, POOLS see LAKES, PONDS AND POOLS POVERTY 18, 19, 38, 39, 343 PRESS, THE 345 PRISON 290 PROSTITUTION 269, 340 RACIAL HATRED 60, 242 RAILWAYS commuting 350 contrasted with stage-coach 56 Lake District 5, 361

poem, – ten thousand lines – revolution of July – composed it on the spot – Mars by day, Apollo by night, – bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.’ But we hear no more of Jingle’s muse. 3. ‘A Word about Tennyson’, The Critic, vol. 7 (1 January 1887), pp. 1–2. 4. Letter of 17 February 1884, in W. S. Petersen (ed.), Browning’s Trumpeter: The Correspondence of Robert Browning and Frederick J. Furnivall, 1872–1889 (Washington, D.C.: Decatur House Press, 1979), p. 93. 5. Browning’s letter of 10

our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, – Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more – but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the

The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream, And I do these wild things in sheer despite, And play the fooleries you catch me at, In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him The only good of grass is to make chaff. What would men have? Do they like grass or no – May they or mayn’t they? all I want’s the thing Settled for ever one way. As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:

coupling; Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful, All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled. Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at; As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing, As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures, Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving, Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine

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