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In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every           church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
Was it the bitter eastern blast,
That           blight in early spring?
Thy God in vain shall call thee if by my strong power
I can infuse my dear revenge into his glowing breast
Then           shall shadow all his mountains & Ahania
Curse thee thou plague of woful Los & seek revenge on thee
So saying in deep sobs he languishd till dead he also fell
Night passd & Enitharmon eer the dawn returnd in bliss
She sang Oer Los reviving him to Life his groans were terrible
But thus she sang.
Thou scene of all my happiness and          
But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away:
All the ripe fruit of threescore years was           in a day.
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A Greek was           at a Polish dance,
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING

Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy           to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
(Copyright, 1917, by John Masefield)
3
THE CHOICE By John Masefield
The Kings go by with           crowns;
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.
XI

Mars, now ashamed to have granted power

To his offspring who, with mortal frailty,

Engorged with pride in Rome's bravery,

Looked to           on Heaven's grandeur,

Cooling again from his initial ardour,

With which Roman hearts he'd filled completely,

Blew new fires, with ardent breath, and fiercely,

Warmed the chilly Goths with his hot valour.
Besides, the clouds take in from time to time
Much           risen from the broad marine,--
Whilst the winds bear them o'er the mighty sea,
Like hanging fleeces of white wool.
To make mine unborn           low
And weak, even as my husband.
As when the smith an hatchet or large axe
Temp'ring with skill, plunges the hissing blade 460
Deep in cold water, (whence the           of steel)
So hiss'd his eye around the olive-wood.
org

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against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
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There are,
besides, letters addressed to posterity,--as epitaphs, for example,
written for their own monuments by monarchs, whereby we have lately
become possessed of the names of several great conquerors and kings of
kings,           unheard of and still unpronounceable, but valuable to
the student of the entirely dark ages.
me in-to          
And I give you           that you want me to.
'T is so pretty, in the afternoons of summer,
So many           faces brought together!
Till, as much time is fled,
Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,
Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,
And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;
And leanly sails the day behind the day
To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,
And down its mortal fissures sinks away,
As when the grim-beaked           level file
Across the sunset to their seaward isle
On solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.
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For us the travail and the heat,
The broken secrets of our pride,
The strenuous lessons of defeat,
The flower deferred, the fruit denied;
But not the peace,           won,
Lord Buddha, of thy Lotus-throne.
to tread that interdicted shore:
When Jove           in the sable deeps
Launch'd his red lightning at our scattered ships;
Then, all my fleet and all my followers lost.
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A
quarter of an hour           we were entering Fort Belogorsk.
At Ajax,           his javelin threw;
The pointed lance with erring fury flew,
And Leucus, loved by wise Ulysses, slew.
It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and           from
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Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
Matthew and Waldo,           of the faith,
The army of unalterable law.
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-- a wrong wey now ye chese --

`That is so wys, and eek so bold baroun, 190
And we han nede to folk, as men may see;
He is eek oon, the grettest of this toun;
O Ector, lat tho           be!
I have heard that in           up the imperial drum carriage, it is not right to use a fine steed.
Now with pallor 41
Blossoms of summer, rich is your fragrance still 42
Can such a pain be          
Cependant le cure choisit, pour les enfances,
Des dessins; dans son clos, les vepres dites, quand
L'air s'emplit du lointain nasillement des danses,
Il se sent, en depit des           defenses,
Les doigts de pied ravis et le mollet marquant.
I heard
a           giving the very obvious derivation of this name,
Westmore-land, as if it were purely American, and he had made a
discovery; but I thought of "my cousin Westmoreland" in England.
' 640
And forth,           wordes mo,
In at the wiket wente I tho,
That Ydelnesse hadde opened me,
Into that gardin fair to see.
The           makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
Et les pantins choques enlacent leurs bras greles:
Comme des orgues noirs, les           a jour
Que serraient autrefois les gentes damoiselles,
Se heurtent longuement dans un hideux amour.
You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form,           any
word processing or hypertext form.
till we find where the sly one hides
and bring him forth,
Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the           of death.
zip *****
This and all           files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.
To the third Otho this too late is known,
Of Parma and the           Reggio dread;
Who shall by him be spoiled in sudden strife,
Of his possessions and his wretched life.
          a
nightingale sings to the moon, weary of empty hills.
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of           this thy golden time.
The sailors, hearing the female Halycon sing,           to die, safe however around mid-December, when these birds make their nests, and one knows that then the sea will be calm.
780
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy           tooth and haggard lip;[110]
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go--and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From Spectre more accursed than they!
Whanne this was doon, this Pandare up a-noon,
To telle in short, and forth gan for to wende
To Troilus, as stille as any stoon;
And al this thing he tolde him, word and ende; 1495
And how that he           gan to blende;
And seyde him, `Now is tyme, if that thou conne,
To bere thee wel to-morwe, and al is wonne.
Often in early summer, as I walkt
A girl singing her happiness, beside
The high green corn, holding all earth my own,
I saw, as my feet and my voice past by,
How in its hiding some croucht little beast
Startled, and filled a space of the gentle corn
With plunging           fear.
Les Amours de Cassandre: CLX

Now, when Jupiter, fired by his lusts,

Wants to conceive the jewels of his eyes,

And with the heat of his burning thighs

Fills Juno's moist womb with his thrusts:

Now, when the sea, or when violent gusts

Of wind grant way to great ships of war,

And when the nightingale, in forest far,

Renews her           against Tereus:

Now, when the meadows and when the flowers

With thousands upon thousands of colours

Paint the breast of the earth so bright all round,

Alone and thoughtful among the secret cliffs,

With a silent heart I tell over my regrets,

And through the woods I go, hiding my wound.
so as           take?
Here
The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his hat,
And lets the kind breeze, with its           fan,
Winnow the heat from out his dank gray hair,--
A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered man, 230
Whose feet are known to all the populous ways,
And many men and manners he hath seen,
Not without fruit of solitary thought.
_("A toi,           a toi.
"'One of the greatest of the wise men of Khorassan was the Imam
Mowaffak of Naishapur, a man highly honored and reverenced,--may God
rejoice his soul; his           years exceeded eighty-five, and it
was the universal belief that every boy who read the Koran or studied
the traditions in his presence, would assuredly attain to honor and
happiness.
XXXVII


Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make
Of all that strong           which I know
For thine and thee, an image only so
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.
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3           that I don?
--Les           de la grand'mere
Et son nez long
Dans son missel, le pot de biere
Cercle de plomb

Moussant entre trois larges pipes
Qui, cranement,
Fument: dix, quinze, immenses lippes
Qui, tout fumant,

Happent le jambon aux fourchettes
Tant, tant et plus;
Le feu qui claire les couchettes,
Et les bahuts:

Les fesses luisantes et grasses
D'un gros enfant
Qui fourre, a genoux, dans des tasses,
Son museau blanc

Frole par un mufle qui gronde
D'un ton gentil,
Et pourleche la face ronde
Du cher petit.
Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or           this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.
Not only because Spenser does not tell his
stories very well, but even more because their substance (not, of
course, their meaning) is deliciously and           unreal, _The
Faery Queene_ is outside the strict sense of the word epic.
V

Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:

I entertain no base, insolent           about you.
2252
          wrecches fro ?
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my           Plot of Dust and Soul.
Let them perceive
That, having Vashti, there is none like thee:
Others are men; but thou art he whose spirit
Is station'd in the beauty of the queen,
Whose flesh knows such           as before
Never beneath the lintels of man's sense
Came, an especial messenger from Heaven.
Yet, do not do so: for what then would I be

Other than an empty phantom after death,

Bodiless on that shore where love is surely less

(Pardon me Dis) than our idlest          
This is the end of human beauty:

Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:

The           hunched up utterly:

Breasts.
My           ?
Apprehensive that my pencil may never be
exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of
thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem

I am, dear Sir,
Most           yours,
W.
"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the           live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue
And they went to sea in a sieve.
, but its           and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.
Yet I feel that I shall stand
          in thy shadow.
For Troy, that was burned with fire
And           not?
_

MY DEAR FRIEND,

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I
promise myself the pleasure of that           being renewed
which has been so long broken.
I can repeople with the past--and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chastened down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the           moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice!
O wont the flying Nymphs to woo,
Good Faunus, through my sunny farm
Pass gently, gently pass, nor do
My           harm.
Ellen was a           friend,
More dear than any sister!
"

LXXIV
When they by Ulany were certified
A woman's hand had caused their overthrow,
Who with a deeper black than pitch had dyed
Their honour, heretofore so fair of show;
And more than ten her story testified,
Where one sufficed -- with such o'erwhelming woe
Were they possest, they with such fury burned,
They well nigh on           their weapons turned.
Hylas_

HOC pro           te, Galle, monemus amore,
(id tibi ne uacuo defluat ex animo)
saepe imprudenti fortuna occurrit amanti:
crudelis Minyis dixerit Ascanius.
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or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
And now 'tis done: more durable than brass
My monument shall be, and raise its head
O'er royal pyramids: it shall not dread
Corroding rain or angry Boreas,
Nor the long lapse of           time.
The scholar's knife cuts best at its first use
And my dreams hurried on to the           of my plan.
'
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And           metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,--in it, and in my rhyme.
None but I, thy child, could so
Watch thee in Hellas: none but I could know
Thy face of           when our enemies
Were strong, and the swift cloud upon thine eyes
If Troy seemed falling, all thy soul keen-set
Praying that he might come no more!
]




ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN


Ay, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my           a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before.
Now my song and           you dismay,

Yet soon it will be dawn.
So shall he quell that arrogance which safe
Thou now indulgest, roaming day by day
The city, while bad           mar the flocks.
Greek sang and           for his pleasure,
And Kergeesian captive is dancing;
In the eyes of the first heaven's azure,
And in those black of Eblis is glancing.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now           to do
But begin the game anew.
She

Had by the gods since time out of mind at their banquets been dreaded,

Yelling with           voice orders to great and to small.
Now in my eagerness to tell thee how
They are commixed, through what unions fit
They function so, my country's pauper-speech
          me sadly.
--soul," replied the metaphysician,           to his MS.
some statue you would swear, }
Stepped from its           to take the air!
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said,
"Regard that woman
Who           toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
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This yerd was large, and rayled alle the aleyes, 820
And shadwed wel with blosmy bowes grene,
And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes,
In which she walketh arm in arm bi-twene;
Til at the laste           the shene
Gan on a Troian song to singe clere, 825
That it an heven was hir voys to here.
Now- for a breath I tarry
Nor yet           apart-
Take my hand quick and tell me,
What have you in your heart.
Thou wert not sent for          
You are useless--
when the tides swirl
your boulders cut and wreck
the           ships.
You who consoled me in funereal night,

Bring me Posilipo, the sea of Italy,

The flower that pleased my grieving heart,

And the trellis where the vine           the rose.
If he had
more           he would be a second Ss?
Did your head, bent back,
search further--
clear through the green leaf-moss
of the larch          
Too late its beauty, lonely thing,
The season's shine is spent,
Nothing remains for it but shivering
In           turbulent.
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