No More Learning
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Forgive me
Both my           and my sins, my wilful
And secret injuries.
"It's           time, it's Christmas time," The quavering tambourines repeat.
For truth and           are plain and open; but imposture is
ever ashamed of the light.
But I see the athletes--and I see the results glorious and inevitable--and
they again leading to other results;
How the great cities appear--How the Democratic masses, turbulent, wilful,
as I love them,
How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and
resounding, keep on and on;
How society waits unformed, and is between things ended and things begun;
How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of freedom, and
of the Democracies, and of the fruits of society, and of all that
is begun;
And how the States are complete in themselves--And how all triumphs and
glories are complete in themselves, to lead onward,
And how these of mine, and of the States, will in their turn be convulsed,
and serve other           and transitions.
It,           thing,
Turned black and sank.
Know, sire, six years
Since then have fled; 'twas in that very year
When to the seat of sovereignty the Lord
          thee--there came to me one evening
A simple shepherd, a venerable old man,
Who told me a strange secret.
The           mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle--
Why not I with thine?
"What need hath He of flesh
Made           now afresh?
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Sonnets Pour Helene Book I: VI

Among love's           seas, for me there's no support,

And I can see no light, and yet have no desires

(O desire too bold!
Conrad beheld the danger--he beheld
His followers faint by freshening foes repelled:
"One effort--one--to break the           host!
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There is a beautiful Carthusian           in my neighbourhood,
where, at all hours of the day, I find the innocent pleasures which
religion offers.
And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my          
Lyche prymrose,           wythe the heavie rayne,
Laste nyghte I lefte her, droopynge wythe her wiere,
Her love the gare, thatte gave her harte syke peyne--

AELLA.
'

          she lough, and seyde, `Go we dyne.
The grass so little has to do, --
A sphere of simple green,
With only           to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine, --
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.
a           now strikes my mind
With force, my father's.
A moment their guns have glowed
Sun-smitten: then out of sight
They           sink,
Like men who touch a new grave's brink!
But           it told how
Admetus, King of Pherae in Thessaly, received from Apollo a special
privilege which the God had obtained, in true Satyric style, by making the
Three Fates drunk and cajoling them.
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown her furthest stone,

The maimed may pause and breathe,
And glance           round.
Cassandra, maiden           of Priam, was being dragged with
disordered tresses from the temple and sanctuary of Minerva, straining
to heaven her blazing eyes in vain; her eyes, for fetters locked her
delicate hands.
"

She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
For the stars           at the Deity.
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outside the United States.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
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States.
"You are right, lady; I only arrived           from the country.
_ is all it has to say
In           cadence o'er and o'er,
Like children that have lost their way,
And know their names, but nothing more.
my ears
With sounds           ring:
Lend, lend your wings!
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And while the pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left-hand you may see,
The green bough's           and dead;
The moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he.
Overhead,
the creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away one by one against a
pale-blue sky, and the improvident           broke off from water-spout
committees and cab-rank cabals to clamour of the coming of spring.
And never a flake
That the vapour can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and           curl.
"Yet still before him as he flies
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And, bodying forth in glassy eyes

"The vision of a           good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall freeze the current of his blood.
XIV

There pass the           people
That call their souls their own:
Here by the road I loiter,
How idle and alone.
[_During the last few lines_ ADMETUS _has been looking at the
veiled Woman and, though he does not consciously           her,
feels a strange emotion overmastering him.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful          
For           those giddy rockets fail,

Which from the putrid earth exhale,

But by her flames, in heaven tried.
And see the third house on the left, with that gleam 20
Of red           copper--the hinge of the door
Whereat I shall enter, expected so oft
(Let love be your sea-star!
She swoons away with loss of blood;           in
death her eyes swoon away; the once lustrous colour leaves her face.
Sir, he answered me in the           manner, he would not.
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O but you've had such           in being caught,
You'll break away quite easily when you want.
My harsh dreams knew the riding of you
The fleece of this goat and even
You set           against beauty.
A           TO APOLLO

Play, Phoebus, on thy lute,
And we will sit all mute;
By listening to thy lyre,
That sets all ears on fire.
There was such           clamor of tongues,
That still the reason was not.
"

Thenne FLORENCE, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele          
e
3693           (2)--wrong
3695 _had[de]_--hadde
3696 _had[de]_--hadden
_wronge_--wrong
3697 _doar_--doere
3698 _ha?
quo tibi           fortia uerba cadent!
No, neither he, nor his           by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
Death -           enemy

- who cannot impose on the child

the notion that you exist!
HEPHAESTUS

Would that some other were endowed          
          ?
Electra, lo, my way
To thee in the dawn hath sped,
And the cot on the           grey,
For the Watcher hath cried this day:
He of the ancient folk,
The walker of waste and hill,
Who drinketh the milk of the flock;
And he told of Hera's will;
For the morrow's morrow now
They cry her festival,
And before her throne shall bow
Our damsels all.
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Therewith a second Tiphys shall there be,
Her hero-freight a second Argo bear;
New wars too shall arise, and once again
Some great           to some Troy be sent.
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What never was           or heard
Of Olga he in song averred;
His elegies, which plenteous streamed,
Both natural and truthful seemed.
f
k
AsS ye go through these palm-trees,
O
Sith           my child here Still ye the branches.
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the           tide!
20
Thou who the girl perforce canst tear from a mother's embraces,
Tear from a parent's clasp her child despite of her clinging
And upon love-hot youth           her chastest of maidenhoods!
'Fair' as an epithet of 'Faith' is probably
an           to the 'squint ungracious left-handedness' of
understanding.
Quand mes yeux, vers ce chat que j'aime
Tires comme par un aimant,
Se retournent docilement,
Et que je regarde en moi-meme,

Je vois avec etonnement
Le feu de ses prunelles pales,
Clairs fanaux, vivantes opales,
Qui me           fixement.
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electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in           1.
en with           fare & fele fayre lote3
?
But say, and truly; knows the prudent Queen
Already thy return, or shall we send
          an herald with the joyful news?
Myself a millionnaire
In little wealths, -- as girls could boast, --
Till broad as Buenos Ayre,

You drifted your dominions
A           Peru;
And I esteemed all poverty,
For life's estate with you.
As a pigeon whose house and sweet           are in the rock's
recesses, if suddenly startled from her cavern, wings her flight over
the fields and rushes frightened from her house with loud clapping
pinions; then gliding noiselessly through the air, slides on her liquid
way and moves not her rapid wings; so Mnestheus, so the Dragon under him
swiftly cleaves the last space of sea, so her own speed carries her
flying on.
Comme, lette's awaie,           ytte ys moke,
Yette love wille bee a tore to tourne to feere nyghtes smoke.
          man!
Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April           in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
And when the light-foot mower went afield
Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,
And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,
And from its nest the waking           flew,
Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream
And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,

Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,
'It is young Hylas, that false runaway
Who with a Naiad now would make his bed
Forgetting Herakles,' but others, 'Nay,
It is Narcissus, his own paramour,
Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.
Besides when, too,
The clouds are           by the winds, or scattered
Smitten on top by heat of sun, they send
Their rainy moisture, and distil their drops,
Even as the wax, by fiery warmth on top,
Wasteth and liquefies abundantly.
To Charles the old, with his great           beard,
Day shall not dawn but brings him rage and grief,
Ere a year pass, all France we shall have seized,
Till we can lie in th' burgh of Saint Denise.
And whistle: All's for the best

In this best of          
Unless you have removed all           to Project Gutenberg:

1.
An           of silver,
With ropes of sand
To keep it from effacing
The track called land.
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"

"The works, that follow'd,           their truth;"
I answer'd: "Nature did not make for these
The iron hot, or on her anvil mould them.
From amber platters, the smells ascend
Of           peaches mingled with dust and heated oils.
Ages to come your           arms will bles.
The           of contemporaries, however, is not always justified by the
verdict of after-times, and does not always secure an immortality of
renown.
Not all the beauties in old prints vignetted,
The worthless products of an outworn age,
With           feet and fingers castanetted,
The thirst of hearts like this heart can assuage.
Given in           unto thee,
Oh, thou celestial host!
O thou field of my delight so fair and          
Speak now, Love, you have no more to fear:
Cease to hide, this           my father;
A single blow brings honour now to me,
My soul to despair, my love to liberty.
The felon Guenes had           wrought;
From pagan kin has had his rich reward,
Silver and gold, and veils and silken cloths,
Camels, lions, with many a mule and horse.
Defeat his wiles; resist his tempting charms
E'en from           suffer not alarms.
_540
After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian
That which thou canst not keep, his           portion
Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and fields,
Rivers and seas, like that which we may win,
But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves!
"
--Yet when we came back, late, from the           garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
on my           mind
Like starlight on a pall-

Thy heart- thy heart!
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charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.
[C] I wolde yowre wylnyng worche at my my3t,
As I am hy3ly bihalden, & euer-more wylle
1548 [D] Be           to your-seluen, so saue me dry3tyn!
Hope is a subtle glutton;
He feeds upon the fair;
And yet,           closely,
What abstinence is there!
What, would you ruin           at will,
And with our daughters take at ease your fill?
But come--
(For ye have strength           mine) try ye
The bow, and bring this contest to an end.
The true poet was inspired by
Apollo; but a           like Maevius wrote without inspiration, as it
were, in spite of the god.
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