...was rubbing in the dark in order to see whether the sparks from it were refrangible by a prism. The Poet is dead in me ; my imagination (or rather the...imaginative) lies like a cold snuff on the circular riin of a brass candlestick, without even a stink of tallow to remind you that it was once clothed...

...knew better. He knew in 1801, when he wrote to Godwin*, "The Poet is dead in me; my imagination. . .lies like a cold snuff on the circular rim of a brass candlestick," that something had gone which would return no more, and in 1802 he gathered together all his powers,...

...every nerve quivering. "The Poet is dead in me," he writes to Godwin in March 1801. "My imagination... lies like a cold snuff on the circular rim of a brass candlestick," and here is a passage from the Ode, written in April 1802 — a poet, for once saying a genuine, a...

...self-comparison to Wordsworth precipitated this opinion: The Poet is dead in me — my imagination . . . lies, like a Cold Snuff on the circular Rim of a Brass Candlestick. . . . If I die, and the Booksellers give you any thing for my Life, be sure to say — 'Wordsworth...

...explanation'. After telling how he had been 'chasing down metaphysical Game', Coleridge wrote: The Poet is dead in me — my imagination (or rather the...had been imaginative) lies, like a Cold Snuff on the circolar Rim of a Brass Candlestick, without even a stink of Tallow to remind you that it was once...

...658). The saddest was the ironically poetic confession to William Godwin the following March: "The Poet is dead in me — my imagination (or rather the...the circular Rim of a Brass Candle-stick, without ever a stink of Tallow to remind you that it was once cloathed & mitred with Flame" (II, p. 714). Literary...

...for the Curves of their outlines; the Stars, as I behold them, form themselves into Triangles ... The Poet is dead in me - my imagination (or rather the...stink of Tallow to remind you that it was once clothed & mitred with Flame.68 Just as the 'Alastor' poet's pursuit of the finite leaves him unable to respond...

...which he had increasingly resorted to laudanum to combat pain, Coleridge wrote to Godwin lamenting that 'my imagination (or rather the Somewhat that had been...even a stink of Tallow to remind you that it was once cloathed and mitred with Flame'. He asked Godwin if he had seen the new Lyrical Ballads, and singled...

...habitual Haunting, as I could give before the Tribunal of Heaven/ In March 1801 he wrote to Godwin: The Poet is dead in me — my imagination (or rather the...even a Stink of Tallow to remind you that it was once cloathed & mitred with Flame. That is past by ! — I was once a volume of Gold Leaf, rising & riding...

...every nerve quivering. "The Poet is dead in me," he writes to Godwin in March 1801. "My imagination... lies like a cold snuff on the circular rim of a brass candlestick," and here is a passage from the Ode, written in April 1802 — apoet,foronce saying a genuine, a heart-broken,...