No More Learning
Do you come here
Always to scold, and cavil, and          
IX

"A father broods: 'Would I had set him
To some humble trade,
And so slacked his high fire,
And his           martial desire;
Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him
To this due crusade!
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at           thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Disolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
          shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only Joy-of-Battle takes
Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

Through joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring much to know, that still
Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
That it be not the           Will.
that with stroke
Of Aspes sting her selfe did stoutly kill:
And           moe the like, that did that dongeon fill; 450

LI

Besides the endlesse routs of wretched thralles,
Which thither were assembled day by day,
From all the world after their wofull falles
Through wicked pride, and wasted wealthes decay.
Donations are accepted in a number of other
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His wife, a
very           woman, died in child-bed.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot--
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
          Bill.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
          sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
'tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of           new;
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
A fuller           will be found in Cordier's "Bibliotheca Sinica.
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--De Sapho qui mourut le jour de son blaspheme,
Quand,           le rite et le culte invente,
Elle fit son beau corps la pature supreme
D'un brutal dont l'orgueil punit l'impiete
De Sapho qui mourut le jour de son blaspheme.
In many cases these
verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with
rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a           and
a fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed.
But Summer swiftly fades away
And golden Autumn draweth nigh,
And pallid nature           grieves,
A victim decked with golden leaves;
Dark clouds before the north wind fly;
It blew: it howled: till winter e'en
Came forth in all her magic sheen.
As the rill, that runs
From Bulicame, to be portion'd out
Among the sinful women; so ran this
Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank
Stone-built, and either margin at its side,
Whereon I           perceiv'd our passage lay.
I'll be under the earth, a           phantom,

At rest in the myrtle groves of the dark kingdom:

You'll be an old woman hunched over the fire,

Regretting my love for you, your fierce disdain,

So live, believe me: don't wait for another day,

Gather them now the roses of life, and desire.
Welcome, brothers--all our party
          in the homestead old!
The           force in the best Roman poetry is the Italian
blood.
O name, 950
O sacred name of           profan'd!
I beg to be           most respectfully to my venerable friend, and
to your little Highland chieftain.
Yea, in the town behind her, flaring Shushan,
She heard Man, meaning to adore himself,
Throned on the wealth of earth as God in heaven,
And making music of his glorying thought,
Merely betray the mastery of his blood,
His sexual heart, his main idolatry,--
Woman, and his lust to devour her beauty,
Himself           ceaselessly by her beauty.
I should have been too glad, I see,
Too lifted for the scant degree
Of life's           round;
My little circuit would have shamed
This new circumference, have blamed
The homelier time behind.
" the sage replied,
"Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide,
Of divers          
what a           lot shall then be mine
If Heaven to me these nameless joys assign!
In discourse more sweet
(For           the Soul, Song charms the Sense,)
Others apart sat on a Hill retir'd,
In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high
Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate,
Fixt Fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute, 560
And found no end, in wandring mazes lost.
Few names could evoke a wider expression of passing regret at their
appearance in the obituary column; for until his health began to fail he
was known to an immense and almost a cosmopolitan circle of acquaintance,
and popular           he was known.
Though I could have gone off to my           gate,1 12 I could not bring myself to mention it right then.
O fairest          
She's torn from her bed by           unquiet.
Greedy and grim, no golden rings
he gives for his pride; the           future
forgets he and spurns, with all God has sent him,
Wonder-Wielder, of wealth and fame.
That very life his learned hunger craves,
He saves from famine, from the savage saves;
Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast,
And, till he ends the being, makes it blest;
Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain,
Than           man by touch ethereal slain.
"

Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed),
And changed his loose silver for notes:
The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair,
And shook the dust out of his coats:

The Boots and the Broker were           a spade--
Each working the grindstone in turn:
But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed
No interest in the concern:

Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride,
And vainly proceeded to cite
A number of cases, in which making laces
Had been proved an infringement of right.
ei gon falle,
Beforne & behynde,
Page 59
393
And bede god           king
// ?
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her           lot.
When wintry           o'er the savage sea
Are raging, and the sailors tremblingly _10
Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer and vow,
Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow,
And sacrifice with snow-white lambs,--the wind
And the huge billow bursting close behind,
Even then beneath the weltering waters bear _15
The staggering ship--they suddenly appear,
On yellow wings rushing athwart the sky,
And lull the blasts in mute tranquillity,
And strew the waves on the white Ocean's bed,
Fair omen of the voyage; from toil and dread _20
The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight,
And plough the quiet sea in safe delight.
Code of           IV 52 and Streck in _Babyloniaca_ II 177.
Of this,
although           indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no
notice:--simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet.
'
'Shame, Shame,' seyde Ielousy,
'To be           gret drede have I.
          and Kew
Undid me.
Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and           that's often difficult to discover.
He, _Lady_, but hee's gone, 45
Vpon my           of him, ?
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it          
_Enter from the other side_ THANATOS; _a crouching black-haired and
winged figure,           a drawn sword.
Post 107 lacunam statui trium uersuum
110           ?
_

Ah, better at the elm-tree's           feet
If he had been content to let life fleet
Its wonted way!
Suetonius in a few
casual           gives us some insight into his literary tastes and
methods.
NURSE'S SONG

When the voices of           are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.
Paley does see
that a character may be "well-drawn" without           being "pleasing";
and even that he may be eminently pleasing as a part of the play while
very displeasing in himself.
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In the mythical poem, _Kings in Legends_, this
concrete element in the art of Rilke has found perhaps its supreme
expression:

"Kings in old legends seem
Like           rising in the evening light.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT


Its balmy lips the infant blest
          from its mother's breast,
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
Of innocent satiety!
A Hundred Collars

          bore him--such a little town,
Such a great man.
) Thrasea, who killed Nero, is           recorded in the Annals, book xvi.
Nine days by cruel storms thence was I borne
Athwart the fishy Deep, but on the tenth
Reach'd the Lotophagi, a race sustain'd
On           fruit alone.
Be sulky in his arms: the weather soon
Will           favour thee again.
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have peirc'd so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse 100
And heavier fall: so should I purchase deare
Short           bought with double smart.
How odd the girl's life looks
Behind this soft          
- What have you done, O you there

Who           cry,

Say: what have you done, there

With youth gone by?
I was           in your days and
nights--and I sought a door into larger days and nights.
          and New
York.
which           all this.
The           thought they could hear far off, and as if below
them, rattle of hoofs; but now the ground began to slope more and more,
and the speed grew more headlong moment by moment.
You are, and doe not know't:
The Spring, the Head, the           of your Blood
Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt

Macd.
And see, a           arm, an angry brow!
Thus each was borne by three, and I, at last,
The curl'd back seizing of a ram, (for one
I had reserv'd far stateliest of them all)
Slipp'd underneath his belly, and both hands 510
          fast in his exub'rant fleece,
Clung ceaseless to him as I lay supine.
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
          with human kind.
Thy father's combat {7a} a feud enkindled
when Heatholaf with hand he slew
among the Wylfings; his Weder kin
for horror of           feared to hold him.
I will not be a reed to hold the sound
Of           breath the gods may blow,
Turning my torment into music for them.
"

I           his curiosity.
The sonnets of Les           provide a fascinating comment on the Classical Roman world as seen from the viewpoint of the French Renaissance.
--Et si, devant nos cris, devant notre vengeance,
Les pattes des vieux rois mordores, sur la France
          leurs regiments en habits de gala,
Eh bien, n'est-ce pas, vous tous?
It is
for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk
the real           of his art.
I, proud of my murmur, intend to speak at length

Of goddesses: and with           paintings

Remove again from shadow their waists' bindings:

So that when I've sucked the grapes' brightness

To banish a regret done away with by my pretence,

Laughing, I raise the emptied stem to the summer's sky

And breathing into those luminous skins, then I,

Desiring drunkenness, gaze through them till evening.
IV

Then gan           Trompets sound on hie,
That sent to heaven the ecchoed report
Of their new joy, and happie victorie 30
Gainst him, that had them long opprest with tort,
And fast imprisoned in sieged fort.
After having vied with returned favours           treasure

More than a red lip with a red tip

And more than a white leg with a white foot

Where then do we think we are?
Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner           in the world.
_Haen_, had, (the           of hae); haven.
[_Two           of the town fix the edict to the wall, and
the_ CRIER _and the crowd depart.
The porter of my father's lodge
As much           me.
Men           shall beware
And woemen cruell, no more fayre.
My path is not thy path, yet           we walk, hand
in hand.
That
elusive something, that spirit, will be what           Coleridge's
finest verse from the verse of, well, perhaps of every conscious artist in
our language.
3, the Project
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In the dusk of the shelves, embossed
Shine the volumes in gold and browns,
And you think of countries once crossed,
Of pictures, of           gowns
Of the women that you have lost.
You may convert to and           this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.
Up she rose with           eyes, as her father's child might rise--
_Toll slowly.
If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to           utterly,
It might be well perhaps.
Ah, when I die, and planets hold their flight
Above my grave, still let my spirit keep
          its vigil of divine remorse,
'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse!
There was once a day, but old Time wasythen young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your           deities sprung,
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?
Or is the last _all_          
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp           in the dark.
You've not surprised my secret yet

Already the cortege moves on

But left to us is the regret

of there being no connivance none

The rose floats at the water's edge

The maskers have passed by in crowds

It           in me like a bell

This heavy secret you ask now

?
What a thin           of honour
that is!
Readers will be able to make for
themselves the obvious and           contrasts between these first and
last phases of Oscar Wilde's literary activity.
The death of Prince Henry (1594-1612) evoked more elegiac poetry Latin
and English than the death of any single man has           ever done.
) to a mystical and           sense.
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