[cmi-marseille] c ending

[Helena Mcclain]

Orwill it look closely and carefully at what is actually before it?
Oworld, of what slight and thin stuff is thy happiness!
Will it keep to simplelines and great masses and the vast landscapes of the epic? That perhaps is why they still excite interest anddisgust, contempt and admiration.
For the Dean still retained theincorrigible curiosity of his youth.
He must enlarge; he must generalize; hemust beautify.
But O alas, so long, so farre Our bodies why doe wee forbeare?
But now, as we follow Donne in hisprogress, he leaves us in the lurch. Mere rhythm we feelas we sweep over the smooth backs of the undulating sentencesintoxicates him. He is absenting himself from the presentand its strife. The memory of hissins returns to him as he writes. Butalas, softness has weighed down our steps; brambles have caught atour clothing.
Donnes genius was precisely the opposite of this.
That great ideal, builtup by a score of eloquent pens, still burns bright in our eyes.
He sought sanctuary naturallyenough elsewhere, and naturally had to pay rent for that relief.
We can trace infinite possibilities: it maytake any one of many different directions. But Donne survived theperils of middle age by virtue of the acuteness and ardour of hisintellect.
But when thecharm of that childish device falls flat, there is no breath leftto fill his sails. Or wrapt in flesh what do they here obtain, But glorious name of wretched human kind?
The memory of hissins returns to him as he writes. But Donne survived theperils of middle age by virtue of the acuteness and ardour of hisintellect. He sought sanctuary naturallyenough elsewhere, and naturally had to pay rent for that relief. Hisdevotions themselves were feverish and fitful. We who wished to escape havebeen caught and enmeshed. Andthen the novelist Sidney suddenly opens his eyes.
But when thecharm of that childish device falls flat, there is no breath leftto fill his sails.
So by degrees the book floatsaway into the thin air of limbo. And so of all sides they went to recommend themselvesto the elder brother of death. The comparison, it is true, presents great difficulties. For a moment he could note and observe and record askeenly and exactly as any modern novelist.
We findourselves with shepherds in spring on those sands which lieagainst the Island of Cithera. 
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