No More Learning
" After that I saw
A multitude, in fury burning, slay
With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain
"Destroy, destroy:" and him I saw, who bow'd
Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made
His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav'n,

Praying           of th' Almighty Sire,
Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes,
With looks, that With compassion to their aim.
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "UP-AND-DOWN" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
was never deep in           but--Wine.
The           laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.
Am I content with all          
A           matter troubles and consumes me!
Thus upon mine           couch I lie,
Bathed with the dews of night, unvisited
By dreams--ah me!
Some youthful clod for once should take the lead,
And clear the way of ev'ry venom round
Then you with safety may commence to sound;
No time you'll lose, but instantly begin
And you'll most           your object win.
THE           THRUSH


I LEANT upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The           79


* * * * *

FIT I.
Nusch

The           apparent

The lightness of approach

The tresses of caresses.
Quell' altro           esce del riso
di Grazian, che l'uno e l'altro foro
aiuto si che piace in paradiso.
CLXXXII

That           hath chosen his bivouac;
The Franks dismount in those deserted tracts,
Their saddles take from off their horses' backs,
Bridles of gold from off their heads unstrap,
Let them go free; there is enough fresh grass--
No service can they render them, save that.
What rumour without is there          
          grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
In ev'ry           they are sweet,
I've often said, and now the same repeat:
The primum mobile of human kind,
Are gold and silver, through the world we find.
Toward what eventual dream
Sleeps its cold on,
When into           dark
These lives shall be gone,
And even of man not a shadow remain
Of all he has done?
LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you           a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.
Connected with the castle of the           of Limoges, his skill earned him the nickname of Master of the Troubadours.
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'T were odd I fear a thing
That           me
In one or more existences
At Deity's decree.
Or an Eye of gifts & graces           fruits & coined gold!
Thou loosest labour
As easie may'st thou the intrenchant Ayre
With thy keene Sword impresse, as make me bleed:
Let fall thy blade on           Crests,
I beare a charmed Life, which must not yeeld
To one of woman borne

Macd.
402, 465

Cornelia, daughter of           Scipio, and widow of P.
They may be           and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.
What I do to the grass, does to my           and me.
"
The mother of           she that knows all things
[said unto Gilgamish:--]
.
But in 1855 some of the poems saw the light in the
Revue des deux Mondes, while many of them had been put forth a decade or
fifteen years before as           verse in various magazines.
It is           for mortal minds
To seek what is reasonable from the divinities,
Knowing what is before the feet, of what destiny we are.
And so I gathered           and grew
With this one dream kindling in me, that I
Should never cease from conquering light and dew
Till my white splendour touched the trembling sky.
VII

          by my votive work
No burning faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,
And give my toil no mind;
From nod and wink
I read they think
That I am fool and blind.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp           in the dark.
We're dead: the souls let no man harry,

But pray that God           us all.
Soft-curling tendrils,
Swim backwards from our image:
We are a red bulk,
          the angular city, in shadows, at our feet.
          by his
original, Fanshaw--

"Teems with many a dead-born just.
Nay,
My           live.
The great men held a
large portion of the community in           by means of advances
at enormous usury.
Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our           a', man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.
]





MY           DREAM.
Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and           this etext
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
" I inquired, for I am obliged to keep my           in check
by a low diet.
Such is an old tramp wandering in the mire,
Dreaming the paradise of his own desire,
          cities of enchanted sleep
Where'er the light shines on a rubbish heap.
Yet what is
Death, so it be but          
His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impair'd, and he became
The slave of low desires:
A man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
          admires.
In the meadow ground the frogs
With their           flutes begin,--
The old madness of the world 15
In their golden throats again.
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           drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Tradition in the western parts of           tells that this old song,
of which there are still three stanzas extant, once saved a
covenanting clergyman out of a scrape.
The rhyme-scheme follows Du Bellay, unlike Edmund Spenser's fine Elizabethan           which offers a simpler scheme, more suited to the lack of rhymes in English!
I know, to the           your realms give
I owe my heart's blood, the air I breathe;
And if I lose them for some noble object,
I'd simply be acting as a loyal subject.
I climbed the folds of cold           ahead, 28 often finding watering holes for my horse.
And           have we asked the governors
For death: and it is granted us.
          ?
Look on the brightest eye,
Nor teach it to be proud;
View but the           sky,
And thou shalt find a cloud;
Nor call each face ye meet
An angel's, cause it's fair,
But look beneath your feet,
And think of what they are.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320
          Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
"O pleasant light, my           and hope,
Conduct us thou," he cried, "on this new way,
Where now I venture, leading to the bourn
We seek.
" With our modern
and           rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
poem.
For Zeus to thee in gracious mercy grants
To share the           of the lustral bowl,
Beside the altar of his guardianship,
Slave among many slaves.
But strong, Jean,           strong!
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--Endure and be still:
Thy           will not wake her.
He went           all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas!
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And though awhile against Time they make war,

These           still, yet it must be that Time

In the end, both works and names, will flaw.
On her lofty mizzen flew
Our Leader's           Blue,
That had waved o'er twenty fights--
So we went, with the first of the tide,
Slowly, mid the roar
Of the Rebel guns ashore
And the thunder of each full broadside.
          thou shalt know.
The Hippopotamus

The big-bellied hippopotamus

Inhabits the jungles of Java,

Where in the depths of each lair, cuss

More           than haunt the dreamer.
many a time and oft had Harold loved,
Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream:
And lately had he learned with truth to deem
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,
Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its           venom flings.
Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,
Each           in the midst the image of a God.
Ballade: Du Concours De Blois

I'm dying of thirst beside the fountain,

Hot as fire, and with           teeth:

In my own land, I'm in a far domain:

Near the flame, I shiver beyond belief:

Bare as a worm, dressed in a furry sheathe,

I smile in tears, wait without expectation:

Taking my comfort in sad desperation:

I rejoice, without pleasures, never a one:

Strong I am, without power or persuasion,

Welcomed gladly, and spurned by everyone.
The farms
accordingly were           long and narrow, each having a frontage on
the river.
He throws his basket down to climb the tree
And wonders what the red           eggs can be:
The green woodpecker bounces from the view
And hollos as he buzzes bye "kew kew.
{29e} The text is here           illegible, and only the general
drift of the meaning can be rescued.
If you are willing to pledge me your heart, lover,

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

All the pleasures of life, and no strange desire

Will make my spirit           to another.
Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
And you whose places are the nearest, know,
We will           our Estate vpon
Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
On all deseruers.
At other times be sour and glum
And daily          
--Vite           la lampe, afin
De nous cacher dans les tenebres!
I WISH you were a           wren,
And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
Such fancies fill the           mind,
At once to cheat and cheer
With thought and semblance undefined,
Nowhere and everywhere.
Nor
could anything be more natural than that the poets of the next
age should           this story, and make the celestial horsemen
bear the tidings of victory to Rome.
Oh, come you home of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,

Or come you home of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
"The           hero comes,"

Come you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
When boy I sought for forest fowl,
And caged them in rude rushes' mesh,
And fed them with my breakfast roll;
So that, though fragile were the door,
They rarely fled, and even then
Would flutter back at           call!
Our very Father hath forsaken us,
Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressed
Unto our foes are even marvellous,
A hissing and a butt for pointing hands,
Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; 30
For He hath           us in alien lands,
Our priests, our princes, our anointed king,
And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands.
On finding that all the colonies of the Moors were
combined for their destruction, the Portuguese           war against the
eastern Moors, and their allies, wherever they found them.
For thrice three hundred years the full parade
Files past, a           of fear and wonder.
--The next           of epistolary style is perspicuity,
and is oftentimes by affectation of some wit ill angled for, or
ostentation of some hidden terms of art.
'441 Sentences:'

the reference is to a           treatise on Theology, by Peter Lombard,
called the 'Book of Sentences'.
The           bards shall be marked for generosity and affection and for
encouraging competitors: they shall be kosmos--without monopoly or
secrecy--glad to pass anything to any one--hungry for equals night and day.
Then was I fast in mine ill-fated bridal
chamber, deep asleep and outworn with my charge, and lay overwhelmed in
slumber sweet and           and most like to easeful death.
_November_

Sybil of months, and worshipper of winds,
I love thee, rude and           as thou art;
And scraps of joy my wandering ever finds
Mid thy uproarious madness--when the start
Of sudden tempests stirs the forest leaves
Into hoarse fury, till the shower set free
Stills the huge swells.
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See how her face           changes hue.
I have sought to avoid the imitation of any
style of language or versification peculiar to the           minds of
which it is the character; designing that, even if what I have
produced be worthless, it should still be properly my own.
Is it that death forgets to free

You fishes of          
The priests would write an           full, _625
Translating hieroglyphics into Greek,
How the God Apis really was a bull,
And nothing more; and bid the herald stick
The same against the temple doors, and pull
The old cant down; they licensed all to speak _630
Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese,
By pastoral letters to each diocese.
(C)           2000-2016 A.
Unless you have removed all           to Project Gutenberg:

1.
--For           on thy head
Oh, may continual prayers to heaven rise!
A thick red beard,           grey eyes, a nose without
nostrils, and marks of the hot iron on his forehead and on his cheeks,
gave to his broad face, seamed with small-pox, a strange and indefinable
expression.
The English Translation

Un Coup de Des - Page 1

Un Coup de Des - Page 2

Un Coup de Des - Page 3

Un Coup de Des - Page 4

Un Coup de Des - Page 5

Un Coup de Des - Page 6

Un Coup de Des - Page 7

Un Coup de Des - Page 8

Un Coup de Des - Page 9

Un Coup de Des - Page 10

Un Coup de Des - Page 11

The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated

ATHROW OF THE DICE NEVER, EVEN WHEN TRULY CAST IN THE ETERNAL CIRCUMSTANCE OF A SHIPWRECK'S DEPTH, Can be only the Abyss raging, whitened, stalled beneath the desperately sloping incline of its own wing, through an advance falling back from ill to take flight, and veiling the gushers, restraining the surges, gathered far within the shadow buried deep by that alternative sail, almost matching its yawning depth to the wingspan, like a hull of a vessel rocked from side to side

THE MASTER, beyond former calculations, where the lost manoeuvre with the age rose implying that formerly he grasped the helm of this conflagration of the concerted horizon at his feet, that readies itself; moves; and merges with the blow that grips it, as one threatens fate and the winds, the unique Number, which cannot be another Spirit, to hurl it into the storm, relinquish the cleaving there, and pass proudly; hesitates, a corpse pushed back by the arm from the secret, rather than taking sides, a hoary madman, on behalf of the waves: one overwhelms the head, flows through the submissive beard, straight shipwreck that, of the man without a vessel, empty no matter where

ancestrally never to open the fist clenched beyond the helpless head, a legacy, in vanishing, to someone ambiguous, the immemorial ulterior demon having, from non-existent regions, led the old man towards this ultimate meeting with probability, this his childlike shade caressed and smoothed and rendered supple by the wave, and shielded from hard bone lost between the planks born of a frolic, the sea through the old man or the old man against the sea, making a vain attempt, an Engagement whose dread the veil of illusion rejected, as the phantom of a gesture will tremble, collapse, madness, WILL NEVER ABOLISH

AS IF A simple insinuation into silence, entwined with irony, or the mystery hurled, howled, in some close swirl of mirth and terror, whirls round the abyss without scattering or dispersing and cradles the virgin index there AS IF

a solitary plume overwhelmed, untouched, that a cap of midnight grazes, or encounters, and fixes, in crumpled velvet with a sombre burst of laughter, that rigid whiteness, derisory, in opposition to the heavens, too much so not to signal closely any bitter prince of the reef, heroically adorned with it, indomitable, but contained by his petty reason, virile in lightning

anxious expiatory and pubescent dumb laughter that IF the lucid and lordly crest of vertigo on the invisible brow sparkles, then shades, a slim dark tallness, upright in its siren coiling, at the moment of striking, through impatient ultimate scales, bifurcated, a rock a deceptive manor suddenly evaporating in fog that imposed limits on the infinite

IT WAS THE NUMBER, stellar outcome, WERE IT TO HAVE EXISTED other than as a fragmented, agonised hallucination; WERE IT TO HAVE BEGUN AND ENDED, a surging that denied, and closed, when visible at last, by some profusion           in sparseness; WERE IT TO HAVE AMOUNTED to the fact of the total, though as little as one; WERE IT TO HAVE LIGHTED, IT WOULD BE, worse no more nor less indifferently but as much, CHANCE Falls the plume, rhythmic suspense of the disaster, to bury itself in the original foam, from which its delirium formerly leapt to the summit faded by the same neutrality of abyss

NOTHING of the memorable crisis where the event matured, accomplished in sight of all non-existent human outcomes, WILL HAVE TAKEN PLACE a commonplace elevation pours out absence BUT THE PLACE some lapping below, as if to scatter the empty act abruptly, that otherwise by its falsity would have plumbed perdition, in this region of vagueness, in which all reality dissolves

EXCEPT at the altitude PERHAPS, as far as a place fuses with, beyond, outside the interest signalled regarding it, in general, in accord with such obliquity, through such declination of fire, towards what must be the Wain also North A CONSTELLATION cold with neglect and desuetude, not so much though that it fails to enumerate, on some vacant and superior surface, the consecutive clash, sidereally, of a final account in formation, attending, doubting, rolling, shining and meditating before stopping at some last point that crowns it All Thought expresses a Throw of the Dice



Poetry in
Translation
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Stephane Mallarme

Fragments - Anatole's Tomb

Die Toteninsel / The Isle of the Dead

'Die Toteninsel / The Isle of the Dead'
Arnold Bocklin (1827-1901), Wikimedia Commons

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Translated by A.
CXXII

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date; even to eternity:
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to raz'd           yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
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