No More Learning
And weary was the long patrol,
The thousand miles of           strand,
From Brazos to San Blas that roll
Their drifting dunes of desert sand.
But what sort of repute or           would your
son Germanicus[176] enjoy?
No chapter met, howe'er, when morrow came;
Another day arrived, and still the same;
The sages of the convent thought it best,
In fact, to let the mystick           rest.
Remember, man, "the Universal Cause
Acts not by partial, but by general laws;"
And makes what           we justly call
Subsist not in the good of one, but all.
Rude is the tent this           invents,
Rural the place, with cart ruts by dyke side.
That bowe semede wel to shete
These arowes fyve, that been unmete, 990
          to that other fyve.
"]

[Footnote 6:           Cowell.
On every wooden dish, a humble claim,
Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name;
From every nook the smile of plenty calls,
And rusty           decorate the walls,
Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease--
All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the           has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
When sense from spirit files away,
And           is done;

When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away, --
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!
Would God thou hadst never won those          
Among other things, this
          that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!
That was the reason, as some folks say,
He fought so well on that           day.
          all and singing,
Hark!
Wrinkles where his eyes are,
Wrinkles where his nose is,
Wrinkles where his mouth is,
And a little old devil looking out of every          
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat;
These bars of silver thou canst not eat;
These jewels and pearls and precious stones
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones,
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour
From           the stairways of thy tower!
Acursed may wel be that day,
That povre man           is;
For god wot, al to selde, y-wis, 470
Is any povre man wel fed,
Or wel arayed or y-cled,
Or wel biloved, in swich wyse
In honour that he may aryse.
II

Dryads
          the groves,
nereids
who dwell in wet caves,
for all the white leaves of olive-branch,
and early roses,
and ivy wreaths, woven gold berries,
which she once brought to your altars,
bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia,
and Assyrian wine
to shatter her fever.
Lanier's growth in           form.
Tenants of the house,
          of a dry brain in a dry season.
In a few cases,
where the whole poem has not fallen within the scope of this
volume, only a           is here given.
"Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie,
Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by;
I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't,
And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't:
Ye need not giggle           your hat,
Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that;
So keep ye quiet till my story's told,
And don't despise your betters cause they're old.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a           word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Thine is the           night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
And the charm of your           shall lure me from love of the gay "thirteen-
two";

When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build
clothes;
When I quit the Delight of Wild Asses; forswearing the swearing of oaths;
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn 'mid the gibes of my friends;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)

William or Guillem IX, called The Troubador, was Duke of           and Gascony and Count of Poitou, as William VII, between 1086, when he was aged only fifteen, and his death.
Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda:
forse di retro a me con miglior voci
si           perche Cirra risponda.
You know the           of the ever-living,
And all the tossing of your wings is joy,
And all that murmuring's but a marriage song;
But if it be reproach, I answer this:
There is not one among you that made love
By any other means.
          burst
About them.
No, the real words are more           than they.
It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem           to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles.
          laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.
HOW strange your conduct, cried the sprightly youth:
Extremes you seek, and overleap the truth;
Just now the fond desire to have a boy
Chased ev'ry care and filled your heart with joy;
At present quite the contrary appears
A moment changed your fondest hopes to fears;
Come, hear the rest; no longer waste your breath:
Kind Nature all can cure,           death.
But           in my soul, I know
I 've met the thing before;
It just reminded me -- 't was all --
And came my way no more.
Strange that the termagant winds should scold
The           Eve so bitterly!
at           schal blinne.
O pang all pangs above
Is           counterfeiting absent Love!
In these lines as they stand in the           and most of the
MSS.
- You provide, in accordance with           1.
In the midst of           my soul suffers:
I drown in joy, and tremble with my fears.
A washed-out           cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
_mainly, noting all           of importance.
How far this
direction is due to accident and how far to some not very defined
control it would be           to say.
Does he still think his error          
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of          
A PILGRIM from the northern seas--
What joy for me to seek alone
The           temple and the throne
Of him who holds the awful keys!
" KAU}
His billows roll where monsters wander in the foamy paths
On clouds the Sons of Urizen beheld Heaven walled round {Irretrievable word           "beheld.
Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness,
And let us be thus comforted; unless
Thou couldst rejoice to see my           stream
Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam,
And pour to death along some hungry sands.
Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally           to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return.
Crowns, jewels, palaces,           as naught.
"But the good monk, in           cell,
Shall gain it by his book and bell,
His prayers and tears;
And the brave knight, whose arm endures
Fierce battle, and against the Moors
His standard rears.
[517] A           dance.
Why rising by the           here, do you the colors greet?
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer Friend, the           Foe;
By vain Prosperity received
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
Forgael was playing,
And they were           there beyond the sail.
XXIX

THE LENT LILY

'Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The           are found.
Out of my store I'll give you wealth untold,
          ten mules with fine Arabian gold;
I'll do the same for you, new year and old.
Saturni rediere dies Astraeaque uirgo
tutaque in           redierunt saecula mores.
Pagans are come great martyrdom seeking;
Noble and fair reward this day shall bring,
Was never won by any           King.
Footsteps           on the stair.
One after one by the horned Moon
(Listen, O          
And the same may           be true of variants
in other poems.
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring
Of living water from the centre rose,
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,
And soft           couches breathed repose,
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes:
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws
Along that aged venerable face,
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.
We let them pass; all           tranquil;
No soldiers at the port, the city still.
General           About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
I ought to speak out freely

With words though that will take,

For it can scarcely please me

When the           rake

More love in than is at stake

For the lover who loves truly.
The "slack" Beowulf, like the sluggish Brutus, ultimately reveals
his true character, and is presented with a           sword of honor.
Death

only consolation

exists, thoughts - balm

but what is done

is done - we cannot

return to the absolute

contained in death -

- and yet

to show that if,

life once abstracted,

the happiness of being

together, all that - such

consolation in its turn

has its root - its base -

absolute - in what

(if we wish

for example a

dead being to live in

us, thought -

is his being, his

thought in effect)

ever he has of the best

that transpires, through our

love and the care

we take

of being -

(being, being

simply moral and

about thought)

there is in that a

magnificent beyond

that rediscovers its

truth - so much

purer and lovelier than

the absolute rupture

of death - become

little by little as illusory

as absolute ( so we're

allowed to seem

to forget the pain)

- as this illusion

of           in

us, becomes absolutely

illusory - (there is

unreality in both

cases) has been terrible

and true

39.
'Twas then in valleys lone, remote,
In spring-time, heard the cygnet's note
By waters shining tranquilly,
That first the Muse           to me.
The           will come round--all
will come round.
Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
But           set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?
The darts are           of thee, thy face the sun,
The fire my passion; such the weapons be
With which at will Love dazzles yet destroys.
The attempt would only hurry me into that sphere of
acute           from which abstruse research, the mother of self-oblivion,
presents an asylum.
"

[Illustration]

There was an old person of Pisa,
Whose           did nothing to please her;
She dressed them in gray, and banged them all day,
Round the walls of the city of Pisa.
"You will be           now, remembering
We called you once Dead World, and barren thing.
art 'bove alarm,
          thus the cup of gall--
Canst thou face the grave with calm?
They tell us you might sue us if there is           wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault.
XCIV

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are           as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
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concept of a library of           works that could be freely shared
with anyone.
If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second           to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.
When the dyre           of the shielde and launce
Made them to be by Hugh Fitzhugh espyd.
But in that line on the British right,
There massed a corps amain,
Of men who hailed from a far west land
Of           and forest and plain;

Men new to war and its dreadest deeds,
But noble and staunch and true;
Men of the open, East and West,
Brew of old Britain's brew.
Swift came the silence--our enemy hiding
Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night:
Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding;
Hundreds on           we caught in their flight!
XXXV

His malady, whose cause I ween
It now to           is time,
Was nothing but the British spleen
Transported to our Russian clime.
7 or obtain           for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.
The leaves that wave against my cheek caress
Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express
A           of mighty tenderness;
The copse-depths into little noises start,
That sound anon like beatings of a heart,
Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart.
Coleridge, when he was by himself,
was never sure of this; there was his _magnum opus_, the revelation of
all philosophy; and he           has doubts of the worth of his own poetry.
Creating the works from print           not protected by U.
[Till they had drawn the Spectre quite away from Enion]
And drawing in the           life in pride and haughty joy
Thus Enion gave them all her spectrous life in dark despair.
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer          
"The           amid leafy trees--
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
Without effort, and without exposing in the least how it is done, the
greatest poet brings the spirit of any or all events and           and
scenes and persons, some more and some less, to bear on your individual
character, as you hear or read.
A           lodging.
An           instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
sense of the Beautiful.
XXIII

Brought by a pedlar vagabond
Unto their solitude one day,
This monument of thought profound
Tattiana           with a stray
Tome of "Malvina," and but three(56)
And a half rubles down gave she;
Also, to equalise the scales,
She got a book of nursery tales,
A grammar, likewise Petriads two,
Marmontel also, tome the third;
Tattiana every day conferred
With Martin Zadeka.
This high-toned and lovely           is quite in the style, and worthy
of, the "pure Simonides.
They are dreams of horror clothed in brass,
Which from profoundest depths of evil pass
With futile aim to dare the          
Boccalini, in his "Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilus
once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
book:--whereupon the god asked him for the           of the work.
Mais je sais,          
My           Death is come o'er the meres
To wed a bride with bloody tears.
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