human
That autumn eve was stilled: A last remains of sunset dimly burned O'er the far forests,--like a torch-flame turned By the wind back upon its bearer's hand In one long flare of crimson; as a brand, The woods beneath lay black.
gpt
Few fine locks Coloured like honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer,
human
Day by day New pollen on the lily-petal grows, And still more labyrinthine buds the rose----
gpt
A touch divine-- And the sealed eyeball owns the mystic rod; Visibly through his garden walketh God----
human
Dante, pacer of the shore Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom, Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume, Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope Into a darkness quieted by hope; Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God's eye In gracious twilights where his chosen lie----
gpt
Sordello grew under the poet's fashioning till, like the magic vapour of the Arabian wizard, it passed beyond his control,
human
Sordello. Thomas Powell, writing in 1849, has chronicled the episode. A few lines, he says, put Jerrold in a state of alarm. Sentence after sentence brought no consecutive thought to his brain. At last the idea occurred to him that in his illness his mental faculties had been wrecked. The perspiration rolled from his forehead, and smiting his head he sank back on the sofa, crying,
gpt
O God, I _am_ an idiot! A little later, adds Powell, when Jerrold's wife and sister entered, he thrust
human
Sordello into their hands, demanding what they thought of it. He watched them intently while they read. When at last Mrs. Jerrold remarked,
gpt
I don't understand what this man means; it is gibberish, her delighted husband gave a sigh of relief and exclaimed,
human
Thank God, I am _not_ an idiot!