Treasure Island

George Darley

(1795 - 1846 / Dublin)

Quotations

  • ''There's many a white hand holds an urn
    With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.''
    George Darley (1795-1846), Irish poet. It Is Not Beauty I Demand (l. 23-24). OAEL-2. Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Hollander, general eds. (1973) Oxford University Press (Also published as six paperback vols.: Medieval English Literature, J. B. Trapp, ed.; The Literature of Renaissance England, John Hollander and Frank Kermode, eds.; The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, Martin Price, ed.; Romantic Poetry and Prose, Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling, eds.; Victorian Prose and Poetry, Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom, eds.; Modern British Literature, Frank Kermode and John Hollander, eds.).
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  • ''Her gorgeous death-bed! her rich pyre
    Burnt up with aromatic fire!''
    George Darley (1795-1846), Irish poet. Nepenthe (l. 9-12). OAEL-2. Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Hollander, general eds. (1973) Oxford University Press (Also published as six paperback vols.: Medieval English Literature, J. B. Trapp, ed.; The Literature of Renaissance England, John Hollander and Frank Kermode, eds.; The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, Martin Price, ed.; Romantic Poetry and Prose, Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling, eds.; Victorian Prose and Poetry, Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom, eds.; Modern British Literature, Frank Kermode and John Hollander, eds.).
  • ''In his green den the murmuring seal
    Close by his sleek companion lies;
    While singly we to bedward steal,
    And close in fruitless sleep our eyes.''
    George Darley (1795-1846), Irish poet. The Mermaiden's Vesper Hymn (l. 9-12). OBNC. Oxford Book of Nineteenth-Century English Verse, The. John Hayward, ed. (1964; reprinted, with corrections, 1965) Oxford University Press.

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To Helene

I sent a ring—a little band
Of emerald and ruby stone,
And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,
Tell thee sweet tales of one
Whose constant memory
Was full of loveliness, and thee.

A shell was graven on its gold,—
'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings—

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