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| I would not paint a picture; I'd rather be One. It's bright impossibility, to dwell delicious on and wonder how the fingers feel whose rare celestial stir evokes so sweet a torment, such sumptuous Despair. I would not talk, like Cornets; I'd rather be the One. Raised softly to the ceilings and out, and easy on through villages of Ether, myself endued balloon by but a lip of metal. The pier to my Pontoon. Nor would I be a poet. It's finer, own the ear, enamored, impotent, content, the license to revere. A privilege so awful; What would the Dower be hat I the art to stun myself with bolts of Melody! |
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When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,Before high-pilèd books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain;When I behold, upon the night's starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love!--then on the shoreOf the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. | ||
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| this is just so powerful and strong. i really am floored. it's the kind of poem that makes you feel so much emotion. | |||
| Posted by Anonymous | |||
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| The poem is by John Keats, an amazing english poet. I'd be surprised if you know the meaning of this ghost sonnet :) Edited by Murama on July 30, 2010 at 05:34 | |||
| Posted by Murama | |||
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| Last Updated: 07/29/2010 |
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| Entry 8 of 8 |
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