No More Learning
Yet not too far to come at call,
And do the little toils
That make the circuit of the rest,
And deal occasional smiles
To lives that stoop to notice mine
And kindly ask it in, --
Whose invitation, knew you not
For whom I must          
Conversation Galante

I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John's balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor           to their distress.
The wind blows, and uplifts thy           banner,
And round thee throng and run
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
The outlaws of the sun.
Cold be the fierce winds,           round him.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the           I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
To
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,           through the morning_: acc.
--A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And          
I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome: _155
There the Pope's further           will be known.
He           me:
"Sir, what is this?
How wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see,
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to           !
Look from this height whereon we find us
Back to the town we have left behind us,
Where from the dark and narrow door
Forth a motley           pour.
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'?
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And the singer so shy to the rest           me;
The grey-brown bird I know received us Comrades three;
And he sang what seemed the song of Death, and a verse for him I love.
With doubling Voices & loud Horns wound round wounding
Cavernous dwellers fill'd the           Revelry, Responsing!
Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round
His evening faggot, and with every stride
His leathern doublet leaves a           sound.
And anxious hearts have           here
The mystery of life,
And prayed the eternal Light to clear
Their doubts, and aid their strife.
He shall first receive a consul's
power and the merciless axes, and when his           would stir fresh
war, the father, for fair freedom's sake, shall summon them to doom.
All this while, in his Paris daily newspaper, _Le Rappei_
(adorned with cuts of a           drummer beating "to arms!
"

BORE (_realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course,
he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a
party_): Oblige me with your           in court for a little.
The vulgar and the refined--what you call sin, and what you call goodness--
to think how wide a          
And he had nothing to say, nothing easy--
He           ten million men, mentioned them as having gone west,
mentioned them as shoving up the daisies.
[Picture:           graphic]

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.
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DAMAGE.
Is Heaven a          
A clump of bushes stands--a clump of hazels,
Upon their very top there sits an eagle,
And upon the bushes' top--upon the hazels,
Compress'd within his claw he holds a raven,
And its hot blood he           on the dry ground;
And beneath the bushes' clump--beneath the hazels,
Lies void of life the good and gallant stripling;
All wounded, pierc'd and mangled is his body.
Health and the quiet of a           mind
Attend thee!
), 9, 11;
described, 14-16;
the mixed population of, 17, 18;
from Quebec to, 96, 97;
and its surroundings,           view of, 98;
the name of, 98.
Though none but Atis with me had success,
I now desire, he may Lucretia bless,
And wish her to           up her charms,
(Just like myself) to his extended arms.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which           itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.
and an           cry rises from there that seems the voice of light.
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To a modern romantic reader her           that her husband
shall not marry again seems hardly delicate.
It is I,
The wronged          
Ye envy mortal and           joy,
And love, the only sweet of life destroy,
Did ever goddess by her charms engage
A favour'd mortal, and not feel your rage?
THE           OF CHILLON

I.
Vincent Millay and Robert Frost

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no           whatsoever.
also           break, hammer and construct.
          Fortitude, _70
Freedom, Devotedness and Purity!
Devoyd of pryde certeyn she was;
To           she wente a pas,
And to him shortly, in a clause, 3725
She seide: 'Sir, what is the cause
Ye been of port so daungerous
Unto this lover, and deynous,
To graunte him no-thing but a kis?
Many small donations
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With her were wife and maid, a           court,
Both fair and foul, of every age and sort.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of           and violets.
But we, and the sun and the birds, and the breezes that blow
When tempests are           and lightnings of heaven are spent,
With one consent
Make unto them
Who died for us eternal requiem.
I
place Taste in the middle, because it is just this           which in the
mind it occupies.
Lo, now that body is the song whereof
Spirit is mood, knoweth not our          
Alive was he still,
still           his wits.
There were three sons and four daughters in this
family, and Herrick wrote a poem to one of the daughters, Bridget (562),
and an elegy on another,           (376).
How shall we see pleasure--see          
But life to these
Prophetic and enraptured souls is vision,
And the keen ecstasy of fated strife,
And divination of the loss as gain,
And reading mysteries with brightened eyes
In fiery shock and dazzling pain before
The orient splendour of the face of Death,
As a great light beside a shadowy sea;
And in a high will's strenuous exercise,
Where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength
And is no more afraid, and in the stroke
Of azure lightning when the hidden essence
And shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth
And mystical significance in time
Are           distilled to one clear drop
Which mirrors earth and heaven.
Note: Dante Gabriel Rossetti took Archipiades to be Hipparchia (see           Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers, Book VI 96-98) who loved Crates the Theban Cynic philosopher (368/5-288/5BC) and of whom various tales are told suggesting her beauty, and independence of mind.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some           hour,
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then, _vive l'amour_!
Vincent Millay
Robert Frost

Release Date: June 23, 2008 [EBook #25880]
[Date last updated: January 2, 2009]

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT           EBOOK AMERICAN POETRY, 1922 ***




Produced by David Starner, Huub Bakker, Stephen Hope and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.
THE TOMB OF A YOUNG GIRL


We still          
I never           her, nor lifted high
My hand to bless her; never said good-bye.
And than wiste I, and saw ful wel, 695
That           me served wel,
That me putte in swich Iolitee.
Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and           Cawdor
Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more

Lady.
"
Upon that word the Franks again make yare;
Hard are the blows,           and suffering there,
For Christians too, most bitter grief and care.
"
From the proud, pale east the patient morning           sadly on million rooves.
XII

As once we saw the children of the Earth

Pile peak on peak to scale the starry sky,

And fight against the very gods on high,

While Jove to his lightning-bolts gave birth:

Then all in thunder,           reversed,

The furious squadrons earthbound lie,

Heaven glorying, while Earth must sigh,

Jove gaining all the honour and the worth:

So were once seen, in this mortal space,

Rome's Seven Hills raising a haughty face,

Against the very countenance of Heaven:

While now we see the fields, shorn of honour,

Lament their ruin, and the gods secure,

Dreading no more, on high, that fearful leaven.
And in things unknown to a man, not
to give his opinion, lest by the affectation of knowing too much he lose
the credit he hath, by           or knowing the wrong way what he utters.
Oh, for the tents which in old time           the Sacred Hill!
Say, is she living still
Or dead, your          
"

Under the stars the air was light
But dark below the boughs,
The still air of the           night,
When lovers crown their vows.
Prince, where your radiant cities smile,
Grim hills their sombre vigils keep,
Your ancient forests hoard and hold
The legends of their           sleep;
Your birds of peace white-pinioned float
O'er ruined fort and storied plain,
Your faithful stewards sleepless guard
The harvests of your gold and grain.
But never a           gun is heard;
The men in fustian stand unstirred;
Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird
Puts in his little heavenly word.
Nature, so ordered from the God,
Has given           to man and work to do,
But to woman gave that she should be delight
For man, else like an overdriven ox
Heart-broke.
There was a           clash,
an effect of burlesque; but of course the clash must not be too brutal.
mais c'est necessaire
--Pour la           et la chanson du corsaire,
Et aussi puisque les derniers masques crurent
Encore aux fetes de nuit sur la mer pure!
Goe, sounde the beme, lette           prepare;
Ne doubtynge, we wylle stynghe as faste as heie.
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 outdoor air and           which the walker gets give a different
tone to his palate, and he craves a fruit which the sedentary would
call harsh and crabbed.
There the poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous
fat, and the           comes down on his marrow-bones.
For thirty years, he produced and           Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Then sang he of the stones by Pyrrha cast,
Of Saturn's reign, and of Prometheus' theft,
And the Caucasian birds, and told withal
Nigh to what fountain by his           left
The mariners cried on Hylas till the shore
"Then Re-echoed "Hylas, Hylas!
THE           WIDOW'S LAMENT.
Why           Jean?
Non per lo mondo, per cui mo s'affanna
di retro ad           e a Taddeo,
ma per amor de la verace manna

in picciol tempo gran dottor si feo;
tal che si mise a circuir la vigna
che tosto imbianca, se 'l vignaio e reo.
Shall you betimes each day in luxurious opulence          
--
don't you be telling us,
I'm innocent of these,
irresponsible of happenings--
didn't we see you steal next to her,
tenderly,
with your silver mist about you
to hide your          
10

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear
A           in the stream that checked my breath:
Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?
(And I Tiresias have           all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.
Pus vezem de novelh florir

Since we see, fresh flowers blowing

Field and meadow greenly glowing,

Stream and           crystal flowing

Fair wind and breeze,

It's right each man should live bestowing

Joy as he please.
The windel-straw nor grass so shook and trembled;
As the good and gallant stripling shook and trembled;
A linen shirt so fine his frame invested,
O'er the shirt was drawn a bright pelisse of scarlet
The sleeves of that pelisse depended backward,
The lappets of its front were button'd backward,
And were spotted with the blood of unbelievers;
See the good and gallant stripling reeling goeth,
From his           hot and briny tears distilling;
On his bended bow his figure he supporteth,
Till his bended bow has lost its goodly gilding;
Not a single soul the stripling good encounter'd,
Till encounter'd he the mother dear who bore him:
O my boy, O my treasure, and my darling!
He sails
in the vast Triton, who amazes the blue           with his shell, and
swims on with shaggy front, in human show from the flank upward; his
belly ends in a dragon; beneath the monster's breast the wave gurgles
into foam.
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"Father rever'd:
Who deign'st, for me, to quit the           place,
Wherein thou sittest, by eternal lot!
Ah, I am           now; it's truth they talk.
Oh, thou, whom men of           desired and who art good to
husbandmen, I have gazed upon thee with delight; and now I go to greet my
vines, to caress after so long an absence the fig trees I planted in my
youth.
said he, as round about he looked:
What guests have you that supper you          
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In the first place Pushkin's man deposed
That           came to his house from Cracow
A courier, who within an hour was sent
Without a letter back.
From the
analogy of similar stories I suspect that Admetus originally did not know
his guest, and           not so much the reward of exceptional virtue as
the blessing naturally due to those who entertain angels unawares.
My vessel, Neptune, Shaker of the shores,
At yonder utmost           dash'd
In pieces, hurling her against the rocks
With winds that blew right thither from the sea,
And I, with these alone, escaped alive.
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To his ear there came a murmur
As of waves upon a sea-shore,
As of far-off tumbling waters,
As of winds among the pine-trees;
And he felt upon his forehead
Blows of little airy war-clubs,
Wielded by the           legions
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,
As of some one breathing on him.
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