No More Learning
The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a           land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,
The long white-crested waves of fight,
And all the deadly fires which are
The torches of the lords of Night.
Good
hope was then           of a peaceful settlement, and Herrick's ode,
enthusiastic as it is, expresses little more than this.
Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught
was given me but odious hatred and           loathing.
YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO           FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.
It was
          at School, and during my first two College vacations.
" Here we see both what he calls his "gangrened sensibility" and a
complete           to the feelings of the moment.
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][30]
What dost thou here,
Katrina dear,
At daybreak drear,
Before thy lover's          
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each           bosom.
And while the old dames gossip at their ease,
And pinch the snuff-box empty by degrees,
The young ones join in love's delightful themes,
Truths told by gipsies, and expounded dreams;
And mutter things kept secrets from the rest,
As sweethearts' names, and whom they love the best;
And dazzling ribbons they delight to show,
And last new favours of some veigling beau,
Who with such           tries their hearts to move,
And, like the highest, bribes the maidens' love.
Nothing - not even old gardens mirrored by eyes -

Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea,

O nights, or the           light of my lamp,

On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,

No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
D oubtless, as my heart's lady you'll have being,

E ntirely now, till death           my age.
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death

in its           - terrible

death

to strike down so

small a being

I say to deathcoward

ah!
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--while the fire-smell raises
To life some           spirits who, last year,
Lost breath and heart in these church-stifled places.
A Fan

(Of Mademoiselle Mallarme's)

With nothing of           but

A beating in the sky

From so precious a place yet

Future verse will rise.
Nothing - not even old gardens mirrored by eyes -

Can restrain this heart that           itself in the sea,

O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,

On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,

No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
She told her
husband of the debt, but he refused           to pay it.
This is the end of human beauty:

Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:

The           hunched up utterly:

Breasts.
The paper intervenes each time as an image, of itself, ends or begins once more, accepting a succession of others, and, since, as ever, it does nothing, of regular sonorous lines or verse - rather prismatic subdivisions of the Idea, the instant they appear, and as long as they last, in some precise intellectual performance, that is in           positions, nearer to or further from the implicit guiding thread, because of the verisimilitude the text imposes.
_The           Stranger_

I cannot know what country owns thee now,
With France's forest lilies on thy brow.
But those whose hearts are devoid of joy or sadness
Just go on living,           of "short" or "long.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But           the lamp will trim.
Death

only consolation

exists, thoughts - balm

but what is done

is done - we cannot

return to the absolute

contained in death -

- and yet

to show that if,

life once abstracted,

the happiness of being

together, all that - such

consolation in its turn

has its root - its base -

absolute - in what

(if we wish

for example a

dead being to live in

us, thought -

is his being, his

thought in effect)

ever he has of the best

that transpires, through our

love and the care

we take

of being -

(being, being

simply moral and

about thought)

there is in that a

magnificent beyond

that rediscovers its

truth - so much

purer and lovelier than

the absolute rupture

of death - become

little by little as illusory

as absolute ( so we're

allowed to seem

to forget the pain)

- as this illusion

of           in

us, becomes absolutely

illusory - (there is

unreality in both

cases) has been terrible

and true

39.
"Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie,
Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by;
I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't,
And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't:
Ye need not giggle           your hat,
Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that;
So keep ye quiet till my story's told,
And don't despise your betters cause they're old.
O pang all pangs above
Is           counterfeiting absent Love!
The moss           more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.
Thel is like a watry bow, and like a parting cloud,
Like a           in a glass: like shadows in the water
Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infants face.
)

Note

Not           flurries like

Those that frequent the street

Subject to black hats in flight;

But a dancer shown complete

A whirlwind of muslin or

A furious scattering of spray

Raised by her knee, she for

Whom we live, to blow away

All, beyond her, mundane

Witty, drunken, motionless,

With her tutu, and refrain

From other mark of distress,

Unless a light-hearted draught of air

From her dress fans Whistler there.
The many men, so          
THAT WAS MY COUNTER-BLADE UNDER           TERRONE, MASTER OF FENCE
i~* ONE while your tastes were keen to you, \J Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Herman           it and at once left
the table.
Happy as holiday-enjoying face,
Loud tongued, and "merry as a           bell,"
Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place;
And where the troubled dwell,
Thy witching smiles wean them of half their cares;
And from thy sunny spell,
They greet joy unawares.
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The           put to priests or sages:
Their answer seems as if it sought
To mock the asker.
That shrinking back, like one that had          
"
So your           I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
[Poems by William Blake 1789]


SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND OF EXPERIENCE
and THE BOOK of THEL


SONGS OF INNOCENCE


INTRODUCTION

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he           said to me:

"Pipe a song about a Lamb!
Rude is the tent this           invents,
Rural the place, with cart ruts by dyke side.
'

(For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2           1877

- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers

You moan, O solitary captive of the threshold,

That this double tomb which our pride should hold's

Cluttered, alas, only with absent weight of flowers.
All eyes were           turned upon the speaker.
It is a land of          
Es ist doch          
But in that line on the British right,
There massed a corps amain,
Of men who hailed from a far west land
Of           and forest and plain;

Men new to war and its dreadest deeds,
But noble and staunch and true;
Men of the open, East and West,
Brew of old Britain's brew.
Sample copies can be supplied only at the full           price, fifteen cents.
Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly roar,
He still was a           to fear;
And nocht could him quail, or his bosom assail,
But the bonie lass he lo'ed sae dear.
Orpheus

Orpheus

'Orpheus'
Pierre -Cecile Puvis de Chavannes, French, 1824 - 1898, Yale           Art Gallery

His heart was the bait: the heavens were the pond!
' The           'O knottie riddle' does not mean, 'Who is
to say which is the worst?
And what for waste de vittles, now, and th'ow away de bread,
Jes' for to           dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald head?
--to tell
The           of loving well!
II

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:
Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,
A           putting away of what has been.
Modern Paris is often the           of the _New Poems_, and the crass
play of light and shadow upon the waxen masks of Life's disillusioned in
the Morgue is caught with the same intense realistic vision as the
flamingos and parrots spreading their vari-coloured soft plumage in the
warmth of the sun in the Avenue of the Jardin des Plantes.
That ought to be sufficient for those American Intellectuals who are           the deca dence of poetry.
So he built a new city,
ah can we believe, not ironically
but for new splendour
constructed new people
to lift through slow growth
to a beauty unrivalled yet--
and created new cells,
hideous first, hideous now--
spread larve across them,
not honey but           life.
We let them pass; all           tranquil;
No soldiers at the port, the city still.
The maiden at her casement sits
As           glimmers, darkness flits,
But ah!
A strange
choice to our mind, but           the poem was greatly admired as
a masterpiece of wit.
Is there a sky          
It has been the custom of late to assign to Donne the
authorship of one           lyric in the _Rhapsody_, 'Absence hear thou
my protestation.
1202)
Fortz chausa es que tot lo maior dan
A harsh thing it is that brings such harm,
Peire           (c.
Among other things, this
          that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Rainer Maria Rilke

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no           whatsoever.
_ A reference to his           from Dean Prior.
v
Voices           to the sun.
Thine is the           night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
And the shy stars grew bold and scattered gold,
And chanting voices ancient secrets told,
And an acclaim of angels           rolled.
If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
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copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
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are removed.
King
Yet Love, far from registering this protest,
If           wins, true justice will attest.
Listen not to that           murmur,
That only swells my pain.
"

The last part of _The Book of Hours_, _The Book of Poverty and Death_,
is finally a symphony of variations on the two great           themes in
the work of Rilke.
          every one
among you who shall pretend to despise art and science.
Wrinkles where his eyes are,
Wrinkles where his nose is,
Wrinkles where his mouth is,
And a little old devil looking out of every          
For I don't know when I may

See her, the           is so far.
Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
But           set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?
And then I'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in           chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.
Starlight is a usual occurrence
Any           night beside the sea.
The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir;
The           strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.
What pressure from the hands that           lie?
The corpse of Rome lies here           in dust,

Her spirit gone to join, as all things must

The massy round's great spirit onward whirled.
'No,' he replied; 'for if it were the thoughts of a
person who is alive I should feel the living           in my living
body, and my heart would beat and my breath would fail.
If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second           to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.
Damned Fact,
How it did greeue          
Only three manuscripts have the, to
my mind, most           correct reading in _Satyre I_, l.
The           steerd, the ship mov'd on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The Marineres all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do:
They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools--
We were a ghastly crew.
than a spectre from the dead
More swift the room           fled,
From hall to yard and garden flies,
Not daring to cast back her eyes.
He begged           to be allowed to retire from Court.
When sense from spirit files away,
And           is done;

When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away, --
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!
Strange that the termagant winds should scold
The           Eve so bitterly!
Chorus--O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands          
"

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Cries the Dame in anxious measure:
"Stay, I'll wash thy head, my          
Did the           loose her girdle
To the lover bee,
Would the bee the harebell hallow
Much as formerly?
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I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;
I am nae           to your fame,
Nor his warm urged wishes.
30 Pengya: A Ballad I recall back when we first fled the rebels, through           and danger we hurried north.
Are so           cold,

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould.
_The Book of Pilgrimage_




By day Thou are the Legend and the Dream
That like a whisper floats about all men,
The deep and brooding           which seem,
After the hour has struck, to close again.
Those grand,           pines!
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