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And indeed there are no times, or countries, or languages in the kingdom of poetry. A very little more may, perhaps, still be said about this great poet, great in the character and variety of his accomplishment, in the volume of it, and, above all, in the extraordinarily sustained quality of his genius and the length of time during which it dominated and pervaded the literature of his country.
He changed from one of these places to the other according to the seasons and led in both the same quiet family life, devoted to poetry, and enjoying to the full the delights of the country, caring little for other society than that of his intimate friends a strong contrast in this respect to his great contemporary Browning, who delighted in the social life of London, as that life delighted in him.
She had a small table by her side on which there were the newest works of poetry and fiction; a pencil and blotting-book, with loose sheets of blank paper; a vase of flowers always of her husband's gathering; winter and summer, she had a sweet fresh nosegay every day.
If his poems were too like wallpapers, it was because he really could make wallpapers. He knew that lines of poetry ought to be in a row, as palings ought to be in a row; and he knew that neither palings nor poetry looks any the worse for being simple or even severe.
I do not think that an ardent girl who loves music art, and poetry, and who hates history and science and mathematics, will ever quite do herself justice if she carries on all three of her favorite studies and ignores the others, even though her favorites are most essential to culture.
Art, poetry, music, science, ay, even those athletic and graceful exercises on which we all pride ourselves, which we consider necessary to soften and refine ourselves, what God has given us a monopoly of them? what is good for the rich man is good for the poor. Over-education? And what of that? What if the poor be raised above "their station"? What right have we to keep them down?
William Shakspeare, the protagonist on the great arena of modern poetry, and the glory of the human intellect, was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, in the year 1564, and upon some day, not precisely ascertained, in the month of April.
She used to build castles in the air, was subject to fits of tender melancholy, and, like Miss Cornelia, adored moonlight, pensive music, and sentimental poetry.
It is a fact that many young people who refuse to be interested in religious literature may be influenced for sexual purity by the emotional appeal of some general literature. This is especially true of romantic poetry.
In the army, in hospitals, or whatever place men are found needy and dependent, true women are freely admitted as ministering angels, with no thought of demoralization. Yes, the world lauds the heroism and devotion of many of these in poetry and song. So far as I could learn, the influence of the women in the chapel did not produce the effect alleged.
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