Samuel Taylor Coleridge Quotes

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

For I was reared
in the great city, pent with cloisters dim,
and saw naught lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! Shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountains, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shall thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and al things in himself
Great universal teacher! He shall mold
Thy spirit and by giving , make it ask.

عندما نجد غلطة في كتابة كاتب جيد، فلنفترض أولاً أننا لم نفهم قبل أن نفترض أن الكاتب
جاهل

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

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?

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks.

Swans sing before they die — 't were no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing.

When the last rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will.
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,

When a man is unhappy he writes damned bad poetry, I find.

Iago's soliloquy—the motive-hunting of a motiveless malignity—how awful it is!

Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.

Taste is the intermediate faculty which connects the active with the passive powers of our nature, the intellect with the senses; and its appointed function is to elevate the images of the latter, while it realizes the ideas of the former.