It is commonly asserted and accepted that Paradise Lost is among the two or three greatest English poems; it may justly be taken as the type of supreme poetic achievement in our literature.
We do not commonly see in a tax a diminution of freedom, and yet it clearly is one.
A woman, the more curious she is about her face, is commonly the more careless about her house.
Dying, we tell ourselves, is like going to sleep. This figure of speech occurs very commonly in everyday thought and language, as well as in the literature of many cultures and many ages. It was apparently quite common even in the time of the ancient Greeks.
Going back into the history of a word, very often into Latin, we come back pretty commonly to pictures or models of how things happen or are done.
All generous minds have a horror of what are commonly called ‘Facts’. They are the brute beasts of the intellectual domain.
What child has ever known the country and has not twined hundreds of fragrant wreaths with the yellow shining cowslip and the more frail and delicate violet – mingling here and there green leaves culled from the odorous eglantine, or, as we more commonly call it, sweetbriar.
But most commonly, it’s one poem that I work on with a lot of intensity.
Time-space as commonly understood, in the sense of the distance measured between two time-points, is the result of time calculation.
Mediocrity is now, as formerly, dangerous, commonly fatal, to the poet; but among even the successful writers of prose, those who rise sensibly above it are the very rarest exceptions.