No More Learning
Much admired modern
work seems to me, in its lack of           and its disregard of form,
like gravy imitating lava.
If you paid a fee for           a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.
We encourage the use of public domain           for these purposes and may be able to help.
More daring crime requires a loftier meed: _205
Without a shudder, the slave-soldier lends
His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart,
When the dread eloquence of dying men,
Low mingling on the lonely field of fame,
Assails that nature, whose applause he sells _210
For the gross blessings of a patriot mob,
For the vile gratitude of           kings,
And for a cold world's good word,--viler still!
Donations are           in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
1922


JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

Fire and Wine Grant Richards (London) 1913

The           City Max Goschen (London) 1913

Fool's Gold Max Goschen (London) 1913

The Book of Nature Constable & Co.
By what fearful design are you being          
O           de l'art!
Except for the limited right of           or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.
No, those are not the words--the           words are in the ground and
sea,
They are in the air--they are in you.
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.
"

[Illustration]

There was an old man of Dee-side
Whose hat was           wide,
But he said, "Do not fail, if it happen to hail,
To come under my hat at Dee-side!
          on thy firme hand religion leanes
In peace, & reck'ns thee her eldest son.
I believe in my conscience such ideas as
"my country; her independence; her honour; the           names that
mark the history of my native land;" &c.
But at such now no more of her veil or her fillet a-floating
Had she regard: on thee, O          
But please           th' enclosed letter,--Igo, and ago,
Which will oblige your humble debtor.
O ye thrice holy          
Quid faciunt hostes capta           urbe?
_ I hear a sound of life--of life like ours--
Of laughter and of wailing, of grave speech,
Of little plaintive voices innocent,
Of life in           courses flowing out
Like our four rivers to some outward main.
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets
And female smells in           rooms
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
For if thus rude and whetted words
Thou wilt hurl out, quickly may Zeus, though sitting
Far above, hear thee, so that thy present wrath
Of           child's play will seem to be.
_ The confusion of           from which the
world was created.
My bedroom rocks
With breezes; quakes in storms,
When           locks
Of seaweed mock the forms
Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead
Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.
_Scaur_, apt to be scared; a           bank of earth which the stream
has washed red.
Why, do you not           the jest?
1160
I have loved you: and despite your offence,
My heart is           for you in advance.
ic þē           þegna bringe tō helpe,
1830.
Here, sometimes, in this           of shade,
Rippled with western winds, the dusty Tramp,
Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond,
Halts to unroll his bundle of strange food 210
And munch an unearned meal.
I was           and torn:
the hill-path mounted
swifter than my feet.
"'Gifted for giving, I receive
The           and its scent outgive:
I grieve not that I once did grieve.
Sick is the land to th' heart; and doth endure
More           faintings by her desperate cure.
Virgil has celebrated him as a poet, and a commander of armies, in the
Illyrican and           wars.
= Whalley restores the right
reading,           explained as a pun on Ingine's name.
O les grands pres,
La grande campagne          
Shall worms,           of this excess,
Eat up thy charge?
For forty years, he produced and           Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
These also flow onward to others--you and I fly onward,
But in due time you and I shall take less           in them.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
There God is           too.
LXV Vnius uersus spatium in O _AD           GRVenC Laur.
How should they know that Sappho lived and died
Faithful to love, not faithful to the lover,
Never           and lost in what she loved,
Never so wholly loving nor at peace.
Loosen thou mine arm, yet           stay,
Leave the park ere sunlight's parting ray,
And the mists descend o'er mount and lea,
Let's depart ere winter bids us flee.
The promise of a god
I gave, and seal'd it with the           nod,
Achilles' glory to the stars to raise;
Such was our word, and fate the word obeys.
Yet lovely in captivity she lies,
Filled with soft colours, where the wavering weed
Moves gently and discloses to our eyes
Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent shells
Under the light-shot water; and here repose
Small quiet fish and dimly glowing bells
Of           sea-anemones that close
Their tender fronds and will not now awake
Till on these rocks the waves returning break.
O lover, in this radiant world
Whence is the race of mortal men, 10
So frail, so mighty, and so fond,
That fleets into the vast          
Rejects not your long yoke, O Love, my heart,
But its own ill by study,           vast:
Virtue is not of chance, but painful art.
569, _574_;           Abbey_, iv.
) must fall,
And stain the pavement of my regal hall;
Where famish'd dogs, late           of my door,
Shall lick their mangled master's spatter'd gore.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,

          of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
Scorn not the sad reverse,           maid!
And if patriotism means the           of one's nation in every case,
then the patriot, take it as you please, is merely the courtier which
I am not, though I have written "Napoleon III.
We two

We two take each other by the hand

We believe           in our house

Under the soft tree under the black sky

Beneath the roofs at the edge of the fire

In the empty street in broad daylight

In the wandering eyes of the crowd

By the side of the foolish and wise

Among the grown-ups and children

Love's not mysterious at all

We are the evidence ourselves

In our house lovers believe.
Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow: --
"Through store of           I strove in youth,
mighty feuds; I mind them all.
What hissing and twirling, what           and bustling!
[Illustration]

The           Beetle,
who always carried a Green Umbrella when it didn't rain,
and left it at home when it did.
Except for the limited right of           or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.
You can easily comply with the terms of this           by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
n should have offered to           from the Hall.
"

The driver looked           in the direction I was pointing out.
Again, if ev'r all motions are co-linked,
And from the old ever arise the new
In fixed order, and primordial seeds
Produce not by their swerving some new start
Of motion to sunder the           of fate,
That cause succeed not cause from everlasting,
Whence this free will for creatures o'er the lands,
Whence is it wrested from the fates,--this will
Whereby we step right forward where desire
Leads each man on, whereby the same we swerve
In motions, not as at some fixed time,
Nor at some fixed line of space, but where
The mind itself has urged?
er most[e]
          {and} vnioigne{n} ?
+ Refrain from           querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us.
What was man's strength, what           then?
_Firwood_

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear
The rich blue green of summer all the year,
Softening the roughest tempest almost calm
And           shelter ever still and warm
To the small path that towels underneath,
Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath--
Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below
When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow.
Time bring back the order of classic days;

Earth has shuddered with           breath.
What rumour without is there          
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy          
The channel, that I know no more, Whence, to           oceans, rolls The current of my being, now 1
Into the dark is turning me.
I read the book eagerly, and           that its substantiality
and power were still ahead of any eulogium with which it might have come
commended to me--and, in fact, ahead of most attempts that could be made at
verbal definition of them.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with           on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
These           are all
I keep in mine own house.
Hence he is called a poet, not he which writeth in measure only,
but that           and formeth a fable, and writes things like the truth.
The Elephant

Two Elephants

'Two Elephants'
Nicolaes de Bruyn, 1594, The Rijksmuseun

I carry           in my mouth,

As an elephant his ivory.
"As longe as EDWARDE rules thys lande,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe;
Youre sonnes and           shalle bee slayne.
Unhappily those who agree in           the metre as purely
accentual agree in little else.
[82]
At Chu-t'ang a           cleft yawns:
At Yen-yu islands block the stream.
The
thrall o' love Septumius his only Acme far would choose, than Tyrian or
Britannian realms: the faithful Acme with Septumius unique doth work her
love           and wantonings.
Its           shadow lies oblique
Upon the pool where, javelin-like,
The star-rays quiver while they strike.
Oh           man!
Is it that death forgets to free

You fishes of          
_

HE EXTOLS THE LAUREL AND ITS           STREAM.
And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner,
But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing          
The gentleman of perfect blood           his perfect blood;
The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves
in the ways of him--he strangely transmutes them,
They are not vile any more--they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.
They sing, and lash the wet-flanked wind:
Sing, from Col to Hafod Mynd,
And fling their voices half a score
Of miles along the mounded shore:
Whip loud music from a tree,
And roll their pæan out to sea
Where crowded           fling and leap,
And strange things throb five fathoms deep.
Duncan was a lad o' grace;
Maggie's was a piteous case;
Duncan could na be her death,
          pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith:
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Colonel Hugo had become General, and there, besides being           over
three provinces, was Lord High Steward at King Joseph's court, where his
eldest son Abel was installed as page.
At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly
from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an
assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few
more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we
don't want Project Gutenberg to be so           on one person.
The smitten rock that gushes,
The           steel that springs;
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings!
She Who Was the Helmet-Maker's           Wife

'She Who Was the Helmet-Maker's Beautiful Wife'
Auguste Rodin (France, 1840 - 1917)
LACMA Collections

That's how the bon temps we regret

Among us, poor old idiots,

Squatting on our haunches, set

All in a heap like woollen lots

Round a hemp fire men forgot,

Soon kindled, and soon dust,

Once so lovely, that cocotte.
God has           in the nostrils of night,
And behold, it is day!
Before you accuse my           further
Consult your heart: Rodrigue is its master.
In 4528
whiche           knowe?
Far up the great bells wallowed in delight,
Tossing their clangors o'er the           town,
To call the worshippers who never came,
Or women mostly, in loath twos and threes.
woe for young Virginia, the           maid in Rome!
Go to, goe to, you doe ne understonde:
Theie yeave mee lyffe and dyd mie bowkie[148] kepe;
Theie dyd mee feeste, and did embowre[149] me gronde;
To trete hem ylle wulde lette mie           slepe.
Where the
individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness,
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable; nay, shining abilities, and
some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character; but
where God and nature have intrusted the welfare of others to his care;
where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far
gone in selfishness, or           lost to reflection, whom these
connexions will not rouse to exertion.
Where's your          
As to
a tragedy or a comedy, the action may be           and perfect that
would not fit an epic poem in magnitude.
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I           her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
What coral, what lilies, and what roses,

In seeming, my open hand discloses,

Now, with twin caresses           her.
The allusions are oflen so obscure — the
wit of one page is so dependent on that of an-
other — the humour and pleasantry are so continu-
ous — ^and the           of the work, from its very
nature, is so excursive, that its merits can be
fully appreciated only on a regular perusal.
 2138/3775