No More Learning
Quando s'ebbe           la gran bocca,
disse a' compagni: < che quel di retro move cio ch'el tocca?
Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he,
I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;

And my           for your strength and bar your renown
I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown.
The critics have,
I think, failed somewhat to reckon with this stratum in Donne's songs,
of poems Petrarchian in           but with a Petrarchianism coloured
by Donne's realistic temper and impatient wit.
_Quel ch'           providenza ed arte.
Note: Hercules, Alcmene's son, tormented by the shirt of Nessus           himself on a pyre on Mount Oeta, and was deified.
In the parching August wind,
          bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
On low hills outspread.
LIX

Walking in the sky,
A man in strange black garb
          a radiant form.
Louis, Missouri, where she           a
school that was founded by the grandfather of another great poet from
St.
To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses,
I leave his troupes of           sick and wan;
I cannot find among these pale, pale roses,
The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon.
Apropos--Is your play then           at last?
That Emperour stood still and           then:
"My lords," said he, "Right evilly we fare!
What profit will thy dead wife gain          
Mad, that I see
Thy          
_

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine in whom I am much
interested, has fallen a           to these accursed times, you will
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among
ballads.
_A25_ (with its partial           _C_) is the only manuscript which
attributes to 'J.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
          with stars, like Ariadne's tiar:
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
are we to let           be bested by a mob of women?
1470

`Ye shal eek seen, your fader shal yow glose
To been a wyf, and as he can wel preche,
He shal som Grek so preyse and wel alose,
That           he shal yow with his speche,
Or do yow doon by force as he shal teche.
You light           only, I force surfaces and depths also.
Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away,
For his ancient heart is drunk with over-watchings night and day,
Round about the           fruit tree curled--
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, without stop,
Lest his scaled eyelid drop, For he is older than the world.
* * * * *

_Wilde's Poems were first           in volume form in 1881_, _and were
reprinted four times before the end of 1882_.
1921


CONRAD AIKEN

Earth Triumphant The Macmillan Company 1914

Turns and Movies           Mifflin Co.
Two we were, with one heart blessed:

If heart's dead, yes, then I foresee,

I'll die, or I must           be,

Like those statues made of lead.
Peire Raimon de           (fl.
" In
1845 it found its           place in the "Selections from Chaucer
modernised.
The earliest version of these lines           in the "Southern Literary
Messenger" for September, 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter.
IV

Mute Seminary there,
Filled once with resonant hymn and prayer,
How your meek walls and windows           then!
[1]

I fear thee and thy           eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.
They tell it to the hills --
The hills just tell the orchards --
And they the          
It is           to pray for
tsar Herod; the Mother of God forbids it.
MEPHISTOPHELES (fur sich):
Nun mach ich mich           fort!
The Critic else           without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
And in the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot' we recognize in Pope ideals of
independence, of devotion to his art, of simple living, of loyal
friendship, and of filial piety which shine in           contrast with
the gross, servile, and cynically immoral tone of the age and society in
which he lived.
Africa, Spain, neither are you disgraced,

Nor that race that holds the English firth,

Nor, by the French Rhine, soldiers of worth,

Nor Germany with other           graced.
[end]










End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Threshold, by Sarojini Naidu

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN           ***

***** This file should be named 680.
Then in the silent cabinet
He in imagination saw
The time when Melancholy's claw
'Mid worldly           chased him yet,
Caught him and by the collar took
And shut him in a lonely nook.
He told Spence in the last years of his
life: "I had once thought of           my ethic work in four
books.
* Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the           or limitation of certain types of damages.
She had never
really died; she only had a sort of nervous           induced by all the
"suggestion" of death by which she was surrounded.
The
bird whose eye takes in the Green           on the one side, and the
ocean on the other, need not be at a loss to find its way.
Though I am           from you,
We were born involved in one another:
Nor by any means can we escape
The intimate sharing of good and ill.
The           Life

What's become of you why this white hair and pink

Why this forehead these eyes rent apart heart-rending

The great misunderstanding of the marriage of radium

Solitude chases me with its rancour.
The last volume of the 'Iliad' appeared in the spring of 1720, and in it
Pope gave a renewed proof of his           by dedicating the whole
work, not to some lord who would have rewarded him with a handsome
present, but to his old acquaintance, Congreve, the last survivor of the
brilliant comic dramatists of Dryden's day.
Je n'ai pas oublie, voisine de la ville,
Notre blanche maison, petite mais tranquille,
Sa Pomone de platre et sa vieille Venus
Dans un bosquet chetif cachant leurs membres nus;
Et le soleil, le soir, ruisselant et superbe,
Qui, derriere la vitre ou se brisait sa gerbe,
Semblait, grand oeil ouvert dans le ciel curieux,
Contempler nos diners longs et silencieux,
Repandant           ses beaux reflets de cierge
Sur la nappe frugale et les rideaux de serge.
And gleams, through the pallor,

A mouth with a           smile;

Red chilli, a scarlet flower,

Hearts'-blood gives it fire.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and           are a folly.
The Moon was shining           from the star-bespangled sky,
while her light irrigated the smooth and shiny sides and wings and backs of
the Blue-Bottle-Flies with a peculiar and trivial splendor, while all
Nature cheerfully responded to the cerulean and conspicuous circumstances.
Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue;
And little hands that evil never knew,
Pure as the new-formed snow;
Thy feet are still           by this world's mire,
Thy golden locks like aureole of fire
Circle thy cherub brow!
These leaves were on the side of the twig or
stubble opposite to the sun, meeting it for the most part at right
angles, and there were others standing out at all possible angles upon
these and upon one another, with no twig or stubble           them.
)
Writing to Sir Walter Scott (October 16, 1803), Wordsworth enclosed a
copy of this sonnet, with the           of text which has been quoted.
Witless surely the wight whose sense is less than of boy-babe
Two-year-old and a-sleep on           forearm of father.
Do not let it serve some impious          
Tattiana wakes
Betimes, and sees, when morning breaks,
Park, garden, palings, yard below
And roofs near morn blanched o'er with snow;
Upon the windows tracery,
The trees in silvery array,
Down in the           magpies gay,
And the far mountains daintily
O'erspread with Winter's carpet bright,
All so distinct, and all so white!
Since to part,
Go heavenly Guest, Ethereal Messenger,
Sent from whose sovran           I adore.
Upsall, I thank you
For           words such as some younger man,
I, or another, should have said before you.
Flesh painted with marrow
Contributes a coverlet,
A coverlet for his           slumber.
You haggard, uncouth, untutor'd          
Have not I caught,
Already, a more healthy          
Je suis les membres et la roue,
Et la victime et le          
Many translations exist, the best
being those of Legge in English and of           in French.
We at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees,
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,
With too much riches it           itself;
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have Ev'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and           that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.
[Sidenote: Do you think that God imposes a necessity on things by
          them?
"

Again the whirl of words, but this time they           a meaning.
She is dead who never lived,

She who made           of being:

From her hands the book has slipped

In which her eyes read nothing.
Wander aloof do I,
Lean over gates and sigh,
Making friends with the bee and the          
"Within your house will strangers sit,
And wonder how first it came;
They'll talk of their schemes for           it,
And will not mention your name.
Out of my dark hours wisdom dawns apace,
Infinite Life unrolls its           space .
But, at a turn her martial courser made,
          needed young Rogero's aid.
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and          
Liberty

On my           from school

On my desk and the trees

On the sand on the snow

I write your name

On every page read

On all the white sheets

Stone blood paper or ash

I write your name

On the golden images

On the soldier's weapons

On the crowns of kings

I write your name

On the jungle the desert

The nests and the bushes

On the echo of childhood

I write your name

On the wonder of nights

On the white bread of days

On the seasons engaged

I write your name

On all my blue rags

On the pond mildewed sun

On the lake living moon

I write your name

On the fields the horizon

The wings of the birds

On the windmill of shadows

I write your name

On each breath of the dawn

On the ships on the sea

On the mountain demented

I write your name

On the foam of the clouds

On the sweat of the storm

On dark insipid rain

I write your name

On the glittering forms

On the bells of colour

On physical truth

I write your name

On the wakened paths

On the opened ways

On the scattered places

I write your name

On the lamp that gives light

On the lamp that is drowned

On my house reunited

I write your name

On the bisected fruit

Of my mirror and room

On my bed's empty shell

I write your name

On my dog greedy tender

On his listening ears

On his awkward paws

I write your name

On the sill of my door

On familiar things

On the fire's sacred stream

I write your name

On all flesh that's in tune

On the brows of my friends

On each hand that extends

I write your name

On the glass of surprises

On lips that attend

High over the silence

I write your name

On my ravaged refuges

On my fallen lighthouses

On the walls of my boredom

I write your name

On passionless absence

On naked solitude

On the marches of death

I write your name

On health that's regained

On danger that's past

On hope without memories

I write your name

By the power of the word

I regain my life

I was born to know you

And to name you

LIBERTY

Ring Of Peace

I have passed the doors of coldness

The doors of my bitterness

To come and kiss your lips

City reduced to a room

Where the absurd tide of evil

leaves a reassuring foam

Ring of peace I have only you

You teach me again what it is

To be human when I renounce

Knowing whether I have fellow creatures

Ecstasy

I am in front of this feminine land

Like a child in front of the fire

Smiling vaguely with tears in my eyes

In front of this land where all moves in me

Where mirrors mist where mirrors clear

Reflecting two nude bodies season on season

I've so many reasons to lose myself

On this road-less earth under horizon-less skies

Good reasons I ignored yesterday

And I'll never ever forget

Good keys of gazes keys their own daughters

in front of this land where nature is mine

In front of the fire the first fire

Good mistress reason

Identified star

On earth under sky in and out of my heart

Second bud first green leaf

That the sea covers with sails

And the sun finally coming to us

I am in front of this feminine land

Like a branch in the fire.
The strong sea-lion of England's wars
Hath left his           cave of sea,
To battle with the storm that mars
The stars of England's chivalry.
hoc tibi, quod potui,           carmine munus
pro multis, Alli, redditur officiis, 150
ne uestrum scabra tangat rubigine nomen
haec atque illa dies atque alia atque alia.
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his           eyes--poor boy!
" KAU}
Severe the labour, female slaves the mortar trod           Twelve halls after the names of his twelve sons composd
The golden wondrous building & three [centr f[orm]] Central Domes after the Names {Erdman posits that Blake erased the words "centr f[orm]" and replaced them with "Central Domes.
Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in           1.
When Rhea Silvia,           and virgin, came down to the Tiber

Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way

Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf

Suckled.
Paraunter I was therto most able
As a whyt wal or a table; 780
For hit is redy to cacche and take
Al that men wil therin make,
Wher-so men wol           or peynte,
Be the werkes never so queynte.
You watch me

I cannot tell you

the truth yet

I dare not, too little one,

What has           to you

-

One day I will tell it

to you

- for as a man

I'd not wish you

not to know

your fate

-

or man

dead child

28.
Then each and all they           bend
their bows into a curve and pull shafts from their quivers.
So she gan wepen          
net

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No           weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of spring.
Threatened with excommunication several times for his dissolute life and           to Church authority, he was later reconciled.
In re-editing the present romance-poem I have been saved all labour of
transcription by using the very accurate text           in Sir F.
org),
you must, at no           cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon, 20
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent; 30
For he left the merry tale
          for spicy ale.
Infanta
My           has changed its object.
Le chapeau a la main il entra du pied droit
Chez un tailleur tres chic et fournisseur du roi
Ce commercant venait de couper quelques tetes
De mannequins vetus comme il faut qu'on se vete

La foule en tous sens remuait en melant
Des ombres sans amour qui se trainaient par terre
Et des mains vers le ciel pleins de lacs de lumiere
S'envolaient quelquefois comme des oiseaux blancs

Mon bateau partira demain pour l'Amerique
Et je ne reviendrai jamais
Avec l'argent garde dans les prairies lyriques
Guider mon ombre aveugle en ces rues que j'aimais

Car revenir c'est bon pour un soldat des Indes
Les boursiers ont vendu tous mes crachats d'or fin
Mais habille de neuf je veux dormir enfin
Sous des arbres pleins d'oiseaux muets et de singes

Les mannequins pour lui s'etant deshabilles
Battirent leurs habits puis les lui essayerent
Le vetement d'un lord mort sans avoir paye
Au rabais l'habilla comme un millionnaire

Au dehors les annees
Regardaient la vitrine
Les mannequins victimes
Et passaient enchainees

Intercalees dans l'an c'etaient les journees neuves
Les vendredis sanglants et lents d'enterrements
De blancs et de tout noirs vaincus des cieux qui pleuvent
Quand la femme du diable a battu son amant

Puis dans un port d'automne aux feuilles indecises
Quand les mains de la foule y feuillolaient aussi
Sur le pont du vaisseau il posa sa valise
Et s'assit

Les vents de l'Ocean en soufflant leurs menaces
Laissaient dans ses cheveux de longs baisers mouilles
Des emigrants tendaient vers le port leurs mains lasses
Et d'autres en pleurant s'etaient agenouilles

Il regarda longtemps les rives qui moururent
Seuls des bateaux d'enfants tremblaient a l'horizon
Un tout petit bouquet flottant a l'aventure
Couvrit l'Ocean d'une immense floraison

Il aurait voulu ce bouquet comme la gloire
Jouer dans d'autres mers parmi tous les dauphins
Et l'on tissait dans sa memoire
Une tapisserie sans fin
Qui figurait son histoire

Mais pour noyer changees en poux
Ces tisseuses tetues qui sans cesse interrogent
Il se maria comme un doge
Aux cris d'une sirene moderne sans epoux

Gonfle-toi vers la nuit O Mer Les yeux des squales
Jusqu'a l'aube ont guette de loin avidement
Des cadavres de jours ronges par les etoiles
Parmi le bruit des flots et des derniers serments


ROSEMONDE

A Andre Derain

Longtemps au pied du perron de
La maison ou entra la dame
Que j'avais suivie pendant deux
Bonnes heures a Amsterdam
Mes doigts jeterent des baisers

Mais le canal etait desert
Le quai aussi et nul ne vit
Comment mes baisers retrouverent
Celle a qui j'ai donne ma vie
Un jour pendant plus de deux heures

Je la surnommai Rosemonde
Voulant pouvoir me rappeler
Sa bouche fleurie en Hollande
Puis lentement je m'en allai
Pour queter la Rose du Monde


LE BRASIER

A Paul-Napoleon Roinard

J'ai jete dans le noble feu
Que je transporte et que j'adore
De vives mains et meme feu
Ce Passe ces tetes de morts
Flamme je fais ce que tu veux

Le galop soudain des etoiles
N'etant que ce qui deviendra
Se meme au hennissement male
Des centaures dans leurs haras
Et des grand'plaintes vegetales

Ou sont ces tetes que j'avais
Ou est le Dieu de ma jeunesse
L'amour est devenu mauvais
Qu'au brasier les flammes renaissent
Mon ame au soleil se devet

Dans la plaine ont pousse des flammes
Nos coeurs pendent aux citronniers
Les tetes coupees qui m'acclament
Et les astres qui ont saigne
Ne sont que des tetes de femmes

Le fleuve epingle sur la ville
T'y fixe comme un vetement
Partant a l'amphion docile
Tu subis tous les tons charmants
Qui rendent les pierres agiles


Je flambe dans le brasier

Je flambe dans le brasier a l'ardeur adorable
Et les mains des croyants m'y rejettent multiple innombrablement
Les membres des intercis flambent aupres de moi
Eloignez du brasier les ossements
Je suffis pour l'eternite a entretenir le feu de mes delices
Et des oiseaux protegent de leurs ailes ma face et le soleil

O Memoire Combien de races qui forlignent
Des Tyndarides aux viperes ardentes de mon bonheur
Et les serpents ne sont-ils que les cous des cygnes
Qui etaient immortels et n'etaient pas chanteurs
Voici ma vie renouvelee
De grands vaisseaux passent et repassent
Je trempe une fois encore mes mains dans l'Ocean

Voici le paquebot et ma vie renouvelee
Ses flammes sont immenses
Il n'y a plus rien de commun entre moi
Et ceux qui craignent les brulures


Descendant des hauteurs

Descendant des hauteurs ou pense la lumiere
Jardins rouant plus haut que tous les ciels mobiles
L'avenir masque flambe en traversant les cieux

Nous attendons ton bon plaisir o mon amie

J'ose a peine regarder la divine mascarade

Quand bleuira sur l'horizon la Desirade

Au-dela de notre atmosphere s'eleve un theatre
Que           le ver Zamir sans instrument
Puis le soleil revint ensoleiller les places
D'une ville marine apparue contremont
Sur les toits se reposaient les colombes basses

Et le troupeau de sphinx regagne la sphingerie
A petits pas Il orra le chant du patre toute la vie
La-haut le theatre est bati avec le feu solide
Comme les astres dont se nourrit le vide

Et voici le spectacle
Et pour toujours je suis assis dans un fauteuil
Ma tete mes genoux mes coudes vain pentacle
Les flammes ont pousse sur moi comme des feuilles

Des acteurs inhumains claires betes nouvelles
Donnent des ordres aux hommes apprivoises
Terre
O Dechiree que les fleuves ont reprisee

J'aimerais mieux nuit et jour dans les sphingeries
Vouloir savoir pour qu'enfin on m'y devorat


RHENANES




Nuit rhenane

Mon verre est plein d'un vin trembleur comme une flamme
Ecoutez la chanson lente d'un batelier
Qui raconte avoir vu sous la lune sept femmes
Tordre leurs cheveux verts et longs jusqu'a leurs pieds

Debout chantez plus haut en dansant une ronde
Que je n'entende plus le chant du batelier
Et mettez pres de moi toutes les filles blondes
Au regard immobile aux nattes repliees

Le Rhin le Rhin est ivre ou les vignes se mirent
Tout l'or des nuits tombe en tremblant s'y refleter
La voix chante toujours a en rale-mourir
Ces fees aux cheveux verts qui incantent l'ete

Mon verre s'est brise comme un eclat de rire


Mai

Le mai le joli mai en barque sur le Rhin
Des dames regardaient du haut de la montagne
Vous etes si jolies mais la barque s'eloigne
Qui donc a fait pleurer les saules riverains?
_ That _I_ shall stand sole exile finally,--
Made desolate for          
In fact the
satyr stands between           and Ishara(?
The title-page states that it           'The Poems of D.
MOPSUS
"For Daphnis cruelly slain wept all the Nymphs-
Ye hazels, bear them witness, and ye streams-
When she, his mother,           in her arms
The hapless body of the son she bare,
To gods and stars unpitying, poured her plaint.
"

The lofty song (for paleness o'er her spread)
The nymph suspends, and bows the languid head;
Her falt'ring words are breathed on plaintive sighs:
"Ah, Belisarius, injur'd chief," she cries,
"Ah, wipe thy tears; in war thy rival see,
Injur'd Pacheco falls despoil'd like thee;
In him, in thee dishonour'd Virtue bleeds,
And Valour weeps to view her fairest deeds,--
Weeps o'er Pacheco, where, forlorn he lies
Low on an alms-house bed, and           dies.
Even at the very start my           fails:
What will become of me before it's all over?
And at your door, you           me;
And at your heart, I sobbed .
" 's a cuckoo sang
That's unco easy said ay;
The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But ay           steady,
On sic a day.
He met within the           vestibule
His young disciple.
The subject,
and some lines of the original version, having been           by the
poet's friend, Mrs.
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with           tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
Can man achieve without the friendly steed--
Alas!
 181/3462