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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=512764" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Hexameters</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">William, my teacher, my friend ! dear William and dear Dorothea !<br>Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table ;<br>Place it on table or desk ; and your right hands loosely half-closing,<br>Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,<br>Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkéd left hand,<br>Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger ;<br>Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo ;<br>And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.<br>This is a galloping measure ; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the staghounds,<br>Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards,<br>I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter ;<br>But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins ;<br>And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">William, my head and my heart ! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest !<br>Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister !<br>Many a mile, O ! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,<br>Long, long, comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.<br>O ! it is all too far to send to you mockeries idle :<br>Yea, and I feel it not right ! But O ! my friends, my belovéd !<br>Feverish and wakeful I lie,--I am weary of feeling and thinking.<br>Every thought is worn down,--I am weary, yet cannot be vacant.<br>Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,<br>Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,<br>Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding night-spider.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I forget the beginning of the line :</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> [Image][Image][Image][Image][Image] ... my eyes are a burthen,<br>Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.<br>O ! what a life is the eye ! what a strange and inscrutable essence !<br>Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him ;<br>Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother ;<br>Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber ;<br>Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison ;<br>Lives with a separate life, and `Is it a Spirit ?' he murmurs :<br>`Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. ... The last line<br>which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of the sentiment,<br>scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude :--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">William, my head and my heart ! dear William and dear Dorothea !<br>You have all in each other ; but I am lonely, and want you !</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Samuel+Taylor+Coleridge">Samuel Taylor Coleridge</a><div class=q>
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Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table ;
Place it on table or desk ; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extendin..."></div>
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