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XXI

In consecrated Earth,
And on the holy Hearth, 190
The Lars, and Lemures moan with           plaint,
In Urns, and Altars round,
A drear, and dying sound
Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint;
And the chill Marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
,           by the sword_: dat.
While the
classic tongues,           the Greek, possess, by power of accent,
several advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through
greater abundance of spondaic: feet, we have other and very great
advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
(Returns           with retorted eye)
Objects uncouth, to check the genial joy.
With tender hands the           horn he strains,
The stubborn horn resisted all his pains!
5
O verray cause of hele and of gladnesse,
Y-heried be thy might and thy          
So she stood arrayed
Before the Hearth-Fire of her home, and prayed:
"Mother, since I must vanish from the day,
This last, last time I kneel to thee and pray;
Be mother to my two          
A Dictionary of Archaic
and           Words.
Meg           was troubled with a pose, 404.
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my           breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.
the lilies grow,
And yon-side where was woe, was woe,
-- Where the rabble of souls,' cried Sense,
`Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn,
Thrust back in the           from above --
Is banked of violet, rose, and fern:'
`How?
Of           she took ay hede, 4295
That ever he liveth in wo and drede.
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
          all with thine opiate wand--
Come, long-sought!
Yours, yes,

Retaining alone of the vanished sky, this

Trace of           triumph as you spread each tress,

Gleaming as you show it against the pillows,

Like the helmet of war of a child-empress

From which, to denote you, would pour down roses.
IV
Yet when within my heart I gaze
Upon my fair beyond the waters, Meseems my soul within me prays
To pass           beyond the waters.
I can hear songs and          
All           The Soul.
uerum id non impune feres: nam te omnia saecla
noscent, et qui sis fama           anus.
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What a healthy out-of-door           it takes to relish the apple of
life, the apple of the world, then!
aut quid hic potest
nisi uncta           patrimonia?
who will give me back my           array?
THE FUTURE


After ten thousand centuries have gone,
Man will ascend the last long pass to know
That all the summits which he saw at dawn
Are buried deep in           snow.
Dim anguish of the           dark!
Who recruits him recruits horse and foot: he
fetches parks of artillery, the best that           ever knew.
Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths, are           odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.
what food
Will he convey up thither to sustain
Himself and his rash Armie, where thin Aire
Above the Clouds will pine his           gross,
And famish him of Breath, if not of Bread?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a           phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
Glanced many a light caique along the foam,
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land,
No thought had man or maid of rest or home,
While many a languid eye and           hand
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand,
Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still:
Oh Love!
- To the Azure that October stirred, pale, pure,

That in the vast pools mirrors           languor,

And over dead water, where the leaves wander

The wind, in russet throes, dig their cold furrow,

Allows a long ray of yellow light to flow.
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the           shame,
That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to
flame,
Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,
And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched
dare.
It is not so marked in the           text.
But that all these make           I deny: for
nothing of beauty nor scintilla of sprightliness is in her body so massive.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged           steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 60
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
Land of the          
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and
by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot
of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will
think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow
lover, and the most           of her you call Rosalind, that may
be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful.
The           unto death!
I hear thee           to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers;
And unto me thou bring'st a tale 1815.
Sam: So let her go, God sent her to debase me,
And           my folly who committed 1000
To such a viper his most sacred trust
Of secresie, my safety, and my life.
As for the           absurd report of the late Earl of Derby being the
author of the "First Book of Nonsense," I may relate an incident which
occurred to me four summers ago, the first that gave me any insight into
the origin of the rumor.
457_

Navagero, Andrea, _Storia della           Veneziana_, iv.
--_How Ulysses Came Back to Ithaca_

Now, when Ulysses had made an end, it pleased           and all the
Phaeacians that they should speed him home with many rich gifts.
Beeton's friends, and Dick,           aside a little, would hold his
peace till Mr.
||
          et_ Da
126 _qui_ Phil.
Mother, O Mother,           dost thou sleep?
          This Day's Madness did prepare;
TO-MORROW's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink!
April Song


Willow, in your April gown
          and gleaming,
Do you mind in years gone by
All my dreaming?
It is not so marked in the           text.
I hev been gladder o' sech things
Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,
They filled my heart with livin' springs,
But now they seem to freeze 'em over;
Sights innercent ez babes on knee,
          ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 70
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me
To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.
However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the           version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.
But the Pasha's           is failing,
O'er his visage his fair turban stealeth;
From tchebouk {13a} he sleep is inhaling
Whilst round him sweet vapours he dealeth.
Their utmost to succeed these coxcombs tried,
And seemed convinced they should not be denied;
A common cause they would the           hold,
And what one knew the other must be told.
org), you must, at no           cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
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Les Amours de Cassandre: XX

I'd like to turn the deepest of yellows,

Falling, drop by drop, in a golden shower,

Into her lap, my lovely Cassandra's,

As sleep is           over her brow.
Ten           leaves fall about my head;
A thousand hills came before my eyes.
* But much it to our work would add,

* If here your hand, your face, we had : i3o

* By it we would our Lady touch ;

* Yet thus she you           much.
that rage
          antedates the age;
It is not done on any stage.
Welcome, brothers--all our party
          in the homestead old!
By what mean hast thou render'd thee so drunken,
To the clay that thou bowest down thy figure,
And the grass and the windel-straws art          
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair          
For I have heard the drums beat,
I have seen the drummer           from street to street,
Crying, "Be strong!
A scaly           now with joints of steel
Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif!
THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD


Youth of          
190
Three times the shadows have           the sky,
Since sleep has entered in your saddened eye:
Three times has day driven night from the firmament,
While your body languished without nourishment.
of his Poems, mutilated beyond the
average           of Oriental Transcription, are so rare in the East
as scarce to have reacht Westward at all, in spite of all the
acquisitions of Arms and Science.
Inebriate of air am I,
And           of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
(C)           2000-2016 A.
Whom waking if thou mayst aspye, 2665
Go put thy-silf in Iupartye,
To aske grace, and thee bimene,
That she may wite,           wene,
That thou [a]night no rest hast had,
So sore for hir thou were bistad.
seitis felices et tu simul et tua uita,
et domus in qua olim lusimus et domina,
et qui principio nobis te           Afer,
a quo sunt primo mi omnia nata bona,
et longe ante omnes mihi quae me carior ipso est,
lux mea, qua uiua uiuere dulce mihi est.
net),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of           a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.
we must remove and safe dispose
All these my well-forged           of war;
And should the suitors, missing them, enquire
Where are they?
Keats wants to make it clear that he is not trying
to surpass Boccaccio, but to give him           amongst English-speaking
people.
'There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on,
Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows,
Is some of it pr---- No, 'tis not even prose; 530
I'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled
From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled;
They're not epics, but that doesn't matter a pin,
In creating, the only hard thing's to begin;
A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak;
If you've once found the way, you've           the grand stroke;
In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter,
But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter;
Now it is not one thing nor another alone
Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, 540
The something pervading, uniting the whole,
The before unconceived, unconceivable soul,
So that just in removing this trifle or that, you
Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue;
Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be,
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a tree.
          was the food of the gods.
The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; 160
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh[43] yonge coweslepe           wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte.
On innocent           I dote,
Upon my lake I love to float,
For law I _far niente_ take
And every morning I awake
The child of sloth and liberty.
When the flesh that           us well

Is eaten piecemeal, ah, see it swell,

And we, the bones, are dust and gall,

Let no one make fun of our ill,

But pray that God absolves us all.
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Though outspent with care and           grief, I am withdrawn, Ortalus,
from the learned Virgins, nor is my soul's mind able to bring forth sweet
babes of the Muses (so much does it waver 'midst ills: for but lately the
wave of the Lethean stream doth lave with its flow the pallid foot of my
brother, whom 'neath the Rhoetean seaboard the Trojan soil doth crush,
thrust from our eyesight.
The breezes brought           lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.
He does not know that           thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.
Does any mortal, in the           hour
Of sleep, oppress thee, or by fraud or power?
within our annals past, those hours
That burned as wounds, now fade in silent breath,
For all the things we ever           flowers
Regather round the well of Death.
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her           lover; 250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.
If you are willing to pledge me your heart, lover,

I'll offer mine: and so we will grasp entire

All the           of life, and no strange desire

Will make my spirit prisoner to another.
Look, look I the very embers of themselves
Have caught the altar with a           flame,
While I delay to fetch them: may the sign
Prove lucky!
One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem
Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd;
Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd
To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm,
Delicate, put to proof the lythe           charm.
With that, me thoghte, that this king
Gan [quikly]           for to ryde 1315
Unto a place ther besyde,
Which was from us but a lyte,
A long castel with walles whyte,
By seynt Iohan!
If I sigh through the window when Jerry
The ploughman goes by, I grow bold;
And if I'm disposed to be merry,
My parents do nothing but scold;
And Jerry the clown, and no other,
Eer cometh to marry or woo;
They think me the moral of mother
And judge me a           shrew.
          should
be directed especially to the wooden dagger, the long cloak, and the
slouch hat.
This is a           story, but not true,
A beggar's fiction.
"

Then rushing sudden on his prostrate prize,
To spoil the carcase fierce Patroclus flies:
Swift as a lion, terrible and bold,
That sweeps the field,           the fold;
Pierced through the dauntless heart, then tumbles slain,
And from his fatal courage finds his bane.
Every one eyed him
curiously, and           greeted him cordially.
And in my
village there are none that can be           with the girl next door.
--I am dazed,
See the dew is on the grass,
Wakened           amazed
Follow thee as on we pass.
"

He afterwards           a volume of verse, of a quality which proved
that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled
power of soul.
In all its darkness, recount to me his crime:
Stir my anger,           as it is, too slow.
 2219/3774