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Page 346 - If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.
Page 282 - On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air;) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
Page 201 - I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical perception; but my senses discover'd the infinite in every thing; and as I was then perswaded, & remain confirm'd, that the voice of honest indignation is the voice of God, I cared not for consequences, but wrote.
Page 379 - Memory and her siren daughters ; but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom He pleases.
Page 420 - I GIVE you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball ; It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall.
Page 416 - Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes : nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend. "Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in Heaven above.
Page 373 - Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing : When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet *, and only took snuff.
Page 221 - I may praise it, since I dare not pretend to be any other than the Secretary; the Authors are in Eternity.
Page 80 - Thames' waters flow. O what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London town ! Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the...