The fine artsH. Holt, 1888 |
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æsthetic Andrea antique Antonio architect architecture artists Bartolommeo bass-reliefs beauty Bramante bronze Brunelleschi Buonarroti cathedral Cellini chapel charm Christ Christian church classic color composition Cosimo death decoration Donatello Duomo expression eyes façade fancy feeling fifteenth century figurative arts figures Florence Florentine Fra Angelico Fra Bartolommeo Francesco frescoes genius Ghiberti Giotto Giovanni Gothic grace Greek hand heaven human ideal imagination influence Italian Italian art Italy Julius legend less Lionardo Lombard Lorenzo Madonna manner Mantegna marble Masaccio master masterpieces mediæval Medici ment Michael Angelo Milan modern monuments motives nature Niccola Pisano Orvieto pagan painters painting palace passion period Perugino Peter's picture Pietro Pisa Pope portraits pulpit pupils qualities Raphael religious Renaissance Revival Roman Rome sculpture sense Siena Signorelli Sistine sonnets soul spirit statue style thought Tintoretto tion Titian tomb ture Tuscan Uffizzi Vasari Venetian Venice Veronese whole youth
Priljubljeni odlomki
Stran 429 - Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall Of earthly art is vain ; how criminal Is that which all men seek unwillingly. Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed, What are they when the double death is nigh ? The one I know for sure, the other dread. Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest My soul, that turns to His great love on high, Whose arms to clasp us on the cross were spread.
Stran 351 - I will show you soon A better station' — so, o'er the lagune We glided, and from that funereal bark I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark How from their many isles in evening's gleam Its temples and its palaces did seem Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven. I was about to speak, when — 'We are even 'Now at the point I meant' said Maddalo And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 'Look Julian on the west, and listen well 'If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.
Stran 520 - The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable, Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low. Therefore not love, nor thy...
Stran 516 - Here helms and swords are made of chalices: The blood of Christ is sold so much the quart: His cross and thorns are spears and shields; and short Must be the time ere even his patience cease. Nay let him come no more to raise the fees Of this foul sacrilege beyond report! For Rome still flays and sells him at the court, Where paths are closed to virtue's fair increase.
Stran 515 - From heaven his spirit came, and robed in clay The realms of justice and of mercy trod, Then rose a living man to gaze on God, That he might make the truth as clear as day. For that pure star that brightened with his ray The undeserving nest where I was born, The whole wide world would be a prize to scorn; None but his Maker can due guerdon pay. I speak of Dante, whose high work remains Unknown, unhonoured by that thankless brood, Who only to just men deny their wage.
Stran 525 - Now hath my life across a stormy sea Like a frail bark reached that wide port where all Are bidden, ere the final reckoning fall Of good and evil for eternity. Now know I well how that fond phantasy Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall Of earthly art, is vain; how criminal Is that which all men seek unwillingly. Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed, What are they when the double death is...
Stran 155 - In half an hour's sitting — in hot weather — The painting on their face has been so mellow, They have left the poor man harder work by half To mend the copy he wrought by : But indeed, If ever I would have mine drawn to the life, ' I would have a painter steal it at such a time I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers ; There is then a heavenly beauty in't, the soul Moves in the superficies.
Stran 517 - ... harp: a rich embroidery Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin. My loins into my paunch like levers grind: My buttock like a crupper bears my weight; My feet unguided wander to and fro; In front my skin grows loose and long; behind, By bending it becomes more taut and strait; Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow: Whence false and quaint, I know, Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye; For ill can aim the gun that bends awry. Come then, Giovanni, try To succour my dead pictures...
Stran 513 - Ariosto, at the rate, nearly, of one hundred lines a day ; but so much meaning has been put by Michael Angelo into so little room, and that meaning sometimes so excellent in itself, that I found the difficulty of translating him insurmountable.
Stran 518 - WHEN my rude hammer to the stubborn stone Gives human shape, now that, now this, at will, Following his hand who wields and guides it still, It moves upon another's feet alone : But that which dwells in heaven, the world doth fill With beauty by pure motions of its own ; And since tools fashion tools which else were none, Its life makes all that lives with living skill. Now, for that every stroke excels the more The higher at the forge it doth ascend, Her soul that fashioned mine...