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For the real culprits, the evil counselors who have misled the Imperial judgment and diverted the sovereign authority to their own guilty ends, full expiation becomes imperative within the rational limits of retributive Justice.
Many of these writings possess real merit and are still a moral and spiritual force. European scholars are only beginning to pay sufficient attention to this mighty flood of hymns which gushed forth in nearly all the vernaculars of India and appealed directly to the people. The phenomenon was not really new.
The earthly Beatrice is exalted to the heavenly in the later poem; but the same perfect purity and intensity of feeling with which she is reverently regarded in the "Divina Commedia" is visible in scarcely less degree in the earlier work. The imagination which makes the unseen seen, and the unreal real, belongs alike to the one and to the other.
As we turned a corner a smaller bird rose from the grass beside the road and soared upward, singing with all its little might until it was a fluttering speck against the sky. Hephzy watched it, her eyes shining. "I believe," she cried, excitedly, "I do believe that is a skylark. Do you suppose it is?" "A lark, yes, lady," said our driver. "A lark, a real skylark! Just think of it, Hosy.
Yet Tolstoy's Powers of Darkness is brutal melodrama when compared to Ibsen's complex dramatic organisms. But what a nerve-shattering revelation is The Death of Ivan Ilyitch. This is the real Tolstoy. How amateurish is the attitude of the Tolstoy disciple who cavils at his masterpieces. What is mere art compared to the message!
With both you can pass days in an enchanted country of the mind, with people, scenery and manners of its own; live a life apart, more arduous, active and glowing than any real existence; and come forth again when the talk is over, as out of a theatre or a dream, to find the east wind still blowing and the chimney-pots of the old battered city still around you.
He is perhaps more deeply inspired by the true spirit of lyric poetry than any other troubadour; he insists that love is the only source of song; poetry to be real, must be lived. Non es meravelha s'ieu chan mielhs de nulh autre chantador; que plus mi tra·l cors ves amor e mielhs sui faitz a son coman.
In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must take yourself off. No compromise was possible.
The real discussion of such questions is carried on by a dialectical process which lasts through many generations, and is but little affected by any particular champion.
"I had to laugh the way they broke in with clapping before you were finished. I knew you weren't done." "Oh, then you're musical, too?" "No, but I could see there was one more page you hadn't turned." "Oh!" "My! but you can go high! Like a regular opera singer." "Oh, if I thought you meant that! It's my ambition to sing real big opera, you know."
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