When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude; — William Wordsworth, from “The Prelude.” Norton; 1st edition (1979) Originally published 1800. Advertisements
I feel I understand Existence, or at least a minute part Of my existence, only through my art, In terms of combinational delight; And if my private universe scans right, So does the verse of galaxies divine Which I suspect is an iambic line. —Vladimir Nabokov, from “Canto Four,” Pale Fire: A Poem in Four… Continue reading Vladimir Nabokov
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world… Continue reading T. S. Eliot
I think she always nursed a small mad hope. — Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire. (Penguin Books, May 1, 2010) Originally published 1962.
Beauty! Terrible Beauty! A deathless Goddess– so she strikes our eyes! — Homer, from The Iliad. Composed around 800-725 B.C. and written down sometime between 725 and 675 B.C.
O brain, be flowers that nightingales may come to sing! ― Nikos Kazantzakis, The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel. (Simon & Schuster; Second Printing edition January 1, 1958) Originally published 1938.
The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals To the good sense and senses of mankind, The very thing which every body feels, As all have found on trial, or may find, That no one likes to be disturb’d at meals Or love. — I won’t say more about “entwined” Or “transport,”… Continue reading George Gordon Byron