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| Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,/ And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; / Round many western islands have I been / Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. |
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| Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen. |
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| Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor |
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| My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. |
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| My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness -- if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor -- but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibers of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me. |
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| Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. |
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| No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest |
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| No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist / Wolf 's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine. |
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| Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced; even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it |
| Experience; Life |
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| Now a soft kiss -- Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss |
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| O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts! |
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| O for ten years, that I may overwhelm / Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed / That my own soul has to itself decreed. |
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| O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song! |
| Romance |
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| O fret not after knowledge -- I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge -- I have none, and yet the Evening listens. |
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| O how frail / To that large utterance of the early Gods! |
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| O latest born and loveliest vision far / Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy. |
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| O soft embalmer of the still midnight, / Shutting, with careful fingers and benign / Our gloom-pleased eyes. |
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