No More Learning

GREEK EPIGRAM
and night are never weary, DAYNor yet is God of creating
For day and night their torch-bearers, The aube and the crepuscule.
So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sun-
set,
Let me be no more counted among the immortals; But number me amid the wearying ones,
Let me be a man as the herd,
And as the slave that is given in barter.
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? HISTRION
r
i N:
great
At times pass through us,
And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone.
'T is as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the "I" And into this some form projects itself:
Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine; And as the clear space is not if a form 's
Imposed thereon,
So cease we from all being for the time,
And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.
PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS
" "DEING no longer human, why should I -D Pretend humanity or don the frail attire?
Men have I known and men, but never one Was grown so free an essence, or become So simply element as what I am.
The mist goes from the mirror and I see ! Behold ! the world of forms is swept beneath
46
O man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
And I how that the souls of all men yet know,
? Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace,
And we that are grown formless rise above, Fluids intangible that have been men,
We seem as statues round whose high risen base Some overflowing river is run mad;
In us alone the element of calm !
A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER In "Los Pastores de Belen. "
From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.
Paracel- s s if
.
f
k
AsS ye go through these palm-trees,
O
Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches.
O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger
Of winds in their fury,
Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour,
Run ye less swiftly,
Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches.
He the divine child Is here a-wearied
Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he
Cease from his mourning, 47
holy angels;
? A Song o/Only a little while,
**f V,ir8in Sith sleepeth this child here
Stay ye the branches.
Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pass us a-flying,
Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches.
Ya veis que no tengo Con que guardarlo,
O angeles santos
Que vais volando
For que duerme mi nino Tened los ramos!
SONG
thou thy dream
scorning, Love thou the wind
And here take warning
That dreams alone can truly be, For 't is in dream I come to thee.
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LOVE
l base love Al
? PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING THAT IS, PRINCE HENRY PLANTAGENET, ELDER
all the grief and woe and bitterness, IFAll dolour, ill and every evil chance
That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together, they would seem but light
Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous,
The world o'ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.
Grieving and sad and full of bitterness
Are left in teen the liegemen courteous,
The joglars supple and the troubadours.
O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death, that deadly warrior, In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous.
'Las ! Never was nor will be in this world
The balance for this loss in ire and sadness !
O skilful Death and full of bitterness,
Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken;
Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth
But had its life in the young English King,
And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That he should live than many a living dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.