No More Learning
XLVI

Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live           through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
Nor plod the winter land to look
For willows in the icy brook
To cast them leafless round him: bring
No spray that ever buds in spring.
XXXV

No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver           mud:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
We Have Created the Night

We have created the night I hold your hand I watch

I sustain you with all my powers

I engrave in rock the star of your powers

Deep furrows where your body's goodness fruits

I recall your hidden voice your public voice

I smile still at the proud woman

You treat like a beggar

The madness you respect the           you bathe in

And in my head which gently blends with yours with the night

I wonder at the stranger you become

A stranger resembling you resembling everything I love

One that is always new.
Two butterflies went out at noon
And waltzed above a stream,
Then stepped straight through the firmament
And rested on a beam;

And then together bore away
Upon a shining sea, --
Though never yet, in any port,
Their coming           be.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320
          Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
          and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget not,
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee!
He could           believe his eyes.
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How few of the others,

Are men           with common sense.
As for you, you are content with the three obols they give you
and which you have so           earned in the galleys, in battles and
sieges.
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"

I bore it--bore it like a man--
This           witticism!
Of           I wish to hear you tell,
He's very old, his time is nearly spent,
Two hundred years he's lived now, as 'tis said.
For traitorously did that foul Tyrant robe
His countenance in lies,--even at the hour
When he was           from death, then o'er the globe,
With secret signs from many a mountain-tower, _3850
With smoke by day, and fire by night, the power
Of Kings and Priests, those dark conspirators,
He called:--they knew his cause their own, and swore
Like wolves and serpents to their mutual wars
Strange truce, with many a rite which Earth and Heaven abhors.
Enter           and Conrade.
Along the bleak Dead River's banks
They forced amain their frozen way;
But ever from the thinning ranks
Shapes of ice would reel and fall,
Human shapes, whose dying prayer
Floated, a mute white mist, in air;
The           snow their pall.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in those lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely           led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,--

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
In friendly contention the old men
Laughed at each lucky hit, or           manoeuvre.
Flame passes under us
and sparks that unknot the flesh,
sorrow, splitting bone from bone,
splendour athwart our eyes
and rifts in the splendour,
sparks and           light.
Pain or pleasure transported her, and the whole of pain or
pleasure might be held in a flower's cup or the           frown of
a friend.
I've scanned you with a           gaze,
Resolved to fathom these your secret ways:
But, sift them as I will,
Your ways are secret still.
THE           WELCOME.
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I start at           whispers, blown
From undertalks of leafy souls unknown,
Vague purports sweet, of inarticulate tone.
Where I           to go
When time's brief masquerade was done,
Is mapped, and charted too!
Thou bay-crowned living One that o'er the bay-crowned Dead art bowing,
And o'er the           moveless brow the vital shadow throwing,
And o'er the sighless songless lips the wail and music wedding,
And dropping o'er the tranquil eyes the tears not of their shedding!
Zum           bin ich schon entruckt.
" the bold           cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
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It is said by Florus, and may easily be believed, that the
triumph far surpassed in           any that Rome had
previously seen.
)--
That the dear creature may be led
And moulded by your will and wishes;
And you stand here as glum,
As one at the door of the auditorium,
As if before your eyes you saw
In bodily shape, with           awe,
Metaphysics and physics, grim and gray!
Amid a           perils, I have worn it
Here on my heart!
ELD Bro: I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength
Which if Heav'n gave it, may be term'd her own:
'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity: 420
She that has that, is clad in compleat steel,
And like a quiver'd Nymph with Arrows keen
May trace huge Forests, and unharbour'd Heaths,
          Hills, and sandy perilous wildes,
Where through the sacred rayes of Chastity,
No savage fierce, Bandite, or mountaneer
Will dare to soyl her Virgin purity,
Yea there, where very desolation dwels
By grots, and caverns shag'd with horrid shades,
She may pass on with unblench't majesty, 430
Be it not don in pride, or in presumption.
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Of selynesse I pryze thee moe yan all
Heaven can mee sende, or           wytt acquyre,
Yette I wylle leave thee, onne the foe to falle,
Retournynge to thie eyne with double fyre.
Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
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form.
Canst           write than Concord's large-stroked Act,
Or when at Bunker Hill the clubbed guns cracked?
Fuhl ich mein Herz noch jenem Wahn          
But still it is
not possible for me to give you a           and fifty Cossacks.
The purple could not keep the east,
The sunrise shook from fold,
Like           of topaz, packed a night,
The lady just unrolled.
Beneath the silken silence
The crystal branches slept,
And dreaming thro' the dew-fall
The cold white           wept.
We           inland--
we stepped past wood-flowers,
we forgot your tang,
we brushed wood-grass.
Why, Petruchio is coming- in a new hat and an old
jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turn'd; a pair of boots
that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another lac'd; an old
rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt,
and chapeless; with two broken points; his horse hipp'd, with an
old motley saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possess'd
with the glanders and like to mose in the chine, troubled with
the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped
with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives,
stark spoil'd with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, sway'd in
the back and shoulder-shotten, near-legg'd before, and with a
half-cheek'd bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather which,
being           to keep him from stumbling, hath been often
burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times piec'd,
and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her
name fairly set down in studs, and here and there piec'd with
pack-thread.
Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage: and the shady nook 45
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past;
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned [11] 50
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the           sky.
Passing the Indus, winding poisonous forests,
Blowing soft flutes at           temple girls,
Filling the highways with their magpie loot,
What brass from my Chicago will they heap,
What gems from Walla Walla, Omaha,
Will they pile near the Bodhi Tree, and laugh?
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And           where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
I           Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.
Let me count the ways
XLIV Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers




I


I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the           years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me.
But at his touch,
Such           hath Heauen giuen his hand,
They presently amend.
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My poor           child!
A sense of duty is like some           disease.
Though weak thine infant feet,
What strange amaze this new and strange world gives
To thy sweet virgin soul, that           lives
In virgin body sweet.
NO haggling, princess pray, my word receive;
What could be done, her terror to          
My tiresome petticoat keeps on           about;
If it opens a little, I shall blame the spring wind.
A washed-out           cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
Singers, singing in lawless freedom,

Jokers, pleasant in word and deed,

Run free of false gold, alloy, come,

Men of wit -           deaf indeed -

Hurry, be quick now, he's dying poor man.
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a           dream,
If it had been no more!
With           doth he go
Begirt, and mailed pikemen?
Let the           preach in his pulpit!
I wish I had a big rug ten           feet long,
Which at one time could cover up every inch of the City.
G
          thetidis et pelei_
324 _tutum_ marg.
"Begin, my flute, with me           lays.
"

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,
The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;
Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling--
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the           drum!
Ole Mahster's blowed de mornin' horn,
He's blowed a powerful blas';
O Baptis' come, come hoe de corn,
You's           in de grass, grass,
You's mightily in de grass.
LFS}
Which is the Earth of Eden, he his Emanations propagated
Like Sons & DaughtersFairies of Albion afterwards Gods of the Heathen, Daughter of Beulah Sing
His fall into Division & his Resurrection to Unity
His fall into the           of Decay & Death & his Regeneration by the Resurrection from the dead*
Begin with Tharmas Parent power.
That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a           in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.
XVII

So long as Jove's great eagle was in flight,

Bearing the fire of Heaven's menaces,

Heaven feared not the dire audaciousness,

That so stoked the Giants'           might.
          animum; nec dulcia carmina quaeras.
t[en]           2632
in ?
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My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his           are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
And aye so fond they of their singing seem
That in their holes abed at close of day
They still keep piping in their honey dreams,
And larger ones that thrum on ruder pipe
Round the sweet smelling closen and rich woods
Where tawny white and red flush clover buds
Shine bonnily and bean fields blossom ripe,
Shed dainty perfumes and give honey food
To these sweet poets of the summer fields;
Me much delighting as I stroll along
The narrow path that hay laid meadow yields,
Catching the windings of their           song.
Note: Dante Gabriel Rossetti took           to be Hipparchia (see Diogenes 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.
What time I paced, at           morn,
A deep and dewy wood,
I heard a mellow hunting-horn
Make dim report of Dian's lustihood
Far down a heavenly hollow.
Strickland
rode back,           wet, just before dinner, and the first thing he said
was:

"Has any one called?
Comes now the Peace so long          
at were
a grete           {and} an enbaissynge wi?
There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the           heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o' Galla Water.
A rocky hill which           the Ocean:--
From that lone ruin, when the steed that panted
Paused, might be heard the murmur of the motion _2535
Of waters, as in spots for ever haunted
By the choicest winds of Heaven, which are enchanted
To music, by the wand of Solitude,
That wizard wild, and the far tents implanted
Upon the plain, be seen by those who stood _2540
Thence marking the dark shore of Ocean's curved flood.
You've stolen away that great power

My beauty ordained for me

Over priests and clerks, my hour,

When never a man I'd see

Would fail to offer his all in fee,

Whatever remorse he'd later show,

But what was           readily,

Beggars now scorn to know.
You've stolen away that great power

My beauty ordained for me

Over priests and clerks, my hour,

When never a man I'd see

Would fail to offer his all in fee,

Whatever remorse he'd later show,

But what was           readily,

Beggars now scorn to know.
"

Pugatchef gave a signal; I was           unbound.
There's nothing fairer here below,
There's nothing grander up in heaven,

Than when           she stands
(The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat),
And holds within her holy hands
The little children's naked feet.
"And if I wore this, with its crest--
Our seal with gems enwreathing--
In open air--'twas in your breast
To seek its fated          
And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death,
         
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          in the
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CITIES


Can we believe--by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each           alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.
          was his
touchstone.
Morn is supposed to be,
By people of degree,
The           of the day.
"

The poems of Sappho so mysteriously lost to us seem to have           of at
least nine books of odes, together with _epithalamia_, epigrams,
elegies, and monodies.
It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and           from
people in all walks of life.
Did with a huge           overbrow 1800.
But
the chief           of this horrible thing was the representation of a
Death's Head, which covered nearly the whole surface of its breast, and
which was as accurately traced in glaring white, upon the dark ground of
the body, as if it had been there carefully designed by an artist.
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