Phases of Thought and CriticismHoughton, Mifflin, 1893 - 273 oldal |
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admiration agnosticism Arthur Arthur Hallam beauty become body Cantù Catholic chap Charles Blanc Chorus-poem Christ Christian Church creed Dante Dante's darkness death Divina Commedia Divine doctrine doubt dream earnest earth error eternal evil existence expression faith Faust feel genius Goethe grace grasp grief groping habit heart heaven Heinrich Suso holy human Ibid ideal Imitation Inferno inspired intellectual knowledge light literary living lyric Maine de Biran Memoriam mind moral mysteries mystical nature neo-Platonic ness never noumenon Paradiso passed passion perfection philosophy Plato poem poet poet's prayer principle pure Purgatorio Quæst reality reason religion religious revealed says seek sing song sonnets sorrow soul speaks Spiritual Sense supernatural Susan Blow sweet teaching Tennyson thee things thinkers thinking Thomas à Kempis thou thought tion true truth Unseen Universe virtue vision whole wisdom words writing yearning
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203. oldal - Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of Thee, And Thou, O Lord, art more than they.
224. oldal - And more, my son! for more than once when I Sat all alone, revolving in myself The word that is the symbol of myself, The mortal limit of the Self was loosed, And past into the Nameless, as a cloud Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, the limbs Were strange not mine — and yet no shade of doubt, But utter clearness, and thro...
207. oldal - I HELD it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.
260. oldal - I can only answer, that either there is no Creator, or this living society of men is in a true sense discarded from His presence. . . . I argue about the world; -if there be a God, since there is a God, the human race is implicated in some terrible aboriginal calamity.
201. oldal - Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last— far off— at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream ; but what am I ? An infant crying in the night ; An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.
107. oldal - My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.
263. oldal - STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute ; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just.
242. oldal - Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 'Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.
224. oldal - So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touched me from the past, And all at once it seemed at last The living soul was flashed on mine...
59. oldal - I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope through 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.