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With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r. From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
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Eloisa to Abelard. By Alexander Pope. Epistles to Several...
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Eloisa to Abelard. By Alexander Pope. Epistles to Several...
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After reading Stephen Burt’s guide to “Epistle to Dr....
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Eloisa to Abelard is a verse epistle by Alexander Pope that was published in 1717 and based on a well-known medieval story. Itself an imitation of a Latin poetic genre, its immediate fame resulted in a large number of English imitations throughout the rest of the century and other poems more loosely based on its themes thereafter.
- Alexander Pope
- 1965
21 de jun. de 2018 · Autor del epitafio de Isaac Newton, Alexander Pope tuvo entre sus amigos a John Gay y Jonathan Swift, con quienes creó la tertulia londinense conocida como Scriblerus Club. Su fallecimiento se produjo el 30 de mayo de 1744 en Twickenham. A continuación, un poema de Pope en versión de Silvina Ocampo. ELOÍSA A ABELARDO
17 de ago. de 2020 · Eloisa to Abelard. Alexander Pope. 1688 –. 1744. In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
And make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray’r. From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You rais’d these hallow’d walls; the desert smil’d, And Paradise was open’d in the wild.
The elegiac epistle of Heloise to Abelard is one of the imperishable gems of literature. which stirs the sympathetic emotions of all. readers. As an exquisite painting of some favorite object or scene affords an untiring. gratification to the eye, so the unrivalled. beauty and pathos of Pope's immortal mas-
Alexander Pope. Eloisa to Abelard. In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav’nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal’s veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love!—From Abelard it came,
