Poetical Works of Robert Bridges: Prometheus the firegiver. Eros and Psyche. The growth of love. Notes

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Smith, Elder, 1898
 

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Strona 226 - For beauty being the best of all we know Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names Were never told can form and sense bestow ; And man hath sped his instinct to outgo The step of science ; and against her shames Imagination stakes out heavenly claims, Building a tower above the head of woe.3 1 The Sense of Beauty, p.
Strona 244 - THE work is done, and from the fingers fall The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro' The tasking eye that overrunneth all Rests, and affirms there is no more to do. Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit ; Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.
Strona 233 - WHO builds a ship must first lay down the keel Of health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed : And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bed For decks of purity, her floor and ceil. Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal, To fortune's wind the sails of purpose spread : And at the prow make figured maidenhead O'erride the seas and answer to the wheel. And let him deep in memory's hold have stor'd Water of Helicon : and let him fit The needle that doth true with heaven accord : Then bid her...
Strona 241 - The which ye thought to have enter'd long ago; Until at length your feeble steps and slow Falter upon the threshold of the shrine, And your hearts overburden'd doubt in fine Whether it be Jerusalem or no : Dishearten'd pilgrims, I am one of you ; For, having worshipp'd many a barren face, 1 scarce now greet the goal I journey'd to : I stand a pagan in the holy place; Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue, And question with the God that I embrace.
Strona 226 - FOR beauty being the best of all we know Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names Were never told can form and sense bestow ; And man hath sped his instinct to outgo The step of science ; and against her shames Imagination, stakes out heavenly claims, Building a tower above the head of woe. Nor is there fairer work for beauty found Than that she win in nature her release From all the woes that in the world abound...
Strona 287 - ETERNAL Father, who didst all create, In whom we live, and to whose bosom move, To all men be Thy name known, which is Love, Till its loud praises sound at heaven's high gate. Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state, That here on earth Thou mayst as well approve Our service, as Thou ownest theirs above, Whose joy we echo and in pain await. Grant body and soul each day their daily bread And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin, Even as our anger soon is past and dead Be Thy remembrance mortal...
Strona 25 - Nor is there any spirit on Earth astir, Nor 'neath the airy vault, nor yet beyond In any dweller in far-reaching space, Nobler or dearer than the spirit of man : That spirit which lives in each and will not die, That wooeth beauty, and for all good things Urgeth a voice, or in still passion sigheth, And where he loveth draweth the heart with him.
Strona 5 - Fates' decrees and bends the wills of the gods, I come : and on the earth step with glad foot. This variegated ocean-floor of the air, The changeful circle of fair land, that lies Heaven's dial, sisterly mirror of night and day : The wide o'er-wandered plain, this nether world My truant haunt is, when from jealous eyes I steal, for hither 'tis I steal, and here Unseen repair my joy : yet not unseen Methinks, nor seen unguessed of him I seek.
Strona 150 - ... he with garrulous and laughing tongue Broke up his news; how Eros, fallen sick, Lay tossing on his bed, to frenzy stung By such a burn as did but barely prick : A little bleb, no bigger than a pease, Upon his shoulder 'twas, that kill'd his ease, Fever'd his heart, and made his breathing thick.
Strona 240 - By freezing cliffs the unransom'd wreckage lies : Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surprise The silence : over plains in the moonlight bare I chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dare In treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies. Poor simple birds, foolish birds ! then I cry, Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir'd By the only joy of knowing that ye fly ; Ye are n6t what ye are, but rather, sum'd in a word, The alphabet of a god's idea, and I Who master it, I am the only bird.

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