Quotes
Quotes - Coleridge
Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn.
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
It sounds like stories from the laud of spirits
If any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.
. . . . . . . . .
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? Three treasures,--love and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,--
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
My eyes make pictures when they are shut.
To know, to esteem, to love, and then to part,
Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart!
In many ways doth the full heart reveal
The presence of the love it would conceal.
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When youth and I lived in 't together.
Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
Oh the joys that came down shower-like,
Of friendship, love, and liberty,
Ere I was old!
I have heard of reasons manifold
Why Love must needs be blind,
But this the best of all I hold,--
His eyes are in his mind.
What outward form and feature are
He guesseth but in part;
But what within is good and fair
He seeth with the heart.
Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
I counted two-and-seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks.
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, nymphs! what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows;
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.
In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column,
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
I stood in unimaginable trance
And agony that cannot be remembered.
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty
That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths,--all these have vanished;
They live no longer in the faith of reason.
I 've lived and loved.
Clothing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
Often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
Our myriad-minded Shakespeare.
A dwarf sees farther than the giant when he has the giant's shoulder to mount on.
An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches in flat countries, with spire steeples, which, as they cannot be referred to any other object, point as with silent finger to the sky and star.
Reviewers are usually people who would have been poets, historians, biographers, if they could; they have tried their talents at one or the other, and have failed; therefore they turn critics.
