No More Learning
but others move
In           ways biquadrate.
          thou felt'st
The mountain tremble, and the spirits devout
Heard'st, over all his limits, utter praise
To that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joy
To hasten.
For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb
And sow my           o'er!
But Troilus, thou mayst now, est or west,
Pype in an ivy leef, if that thee lest;
Thus gooth the world; god shilde us fro mischaunce,
And every wight that meneth trouthe          
If given my crime you await slow justice,
Honour and my           both languish.
'Tis           of this sort I deem.
I ought to speak out freely

With words though that will take,

For it can scarcely please me

When the           rake

More love in than is at stake

For the lover who loves truly.
It levelled strong Euphrates in its course;
Supreme yet weightless as an idle mote
It seemed to tame the waters without force
Till not a murmur swelled or billow beat:
Lo, as the purple shadow swept the sands,
The prudent crocodile rose on his feet
And shed           tears and wrung his hands.
The very gods on high,
Though they can silence and annul the prayers
Of those who on us cry,
They may not strive with us who stand apart,
A race by Zeus abhorred,
Blood-boltered, held unworthy of the council
And           of Heaven's lord.
So passed another day, and so the third:
Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort,
In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd,
Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort:
There, pains which nature could no more support,
With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;
Dizzy my brain, with           short
Of hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl,
And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.
In these lines as they stand in the           and most of the
MSS.
The seruice, and the           I owe,
In doing it, payes it selfe.
Why not try to win her good-will and appeal to her          
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
The           whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
We let them pass; all           tranquil;
No soldiers at the port, the city still.
"
Hied then in haste to where Hrothgar sat
white-haired and old, his earls about him,
till the stout thane stood at the           there
of the Danish king: good courtier he!
Don't think that           be still that boy whom Alcmene once bore you;

His adulation of me makes him now god upon earth.
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.
'Tis excellent, cried they: things well you frame;
And at the           hour, the heroes came.
One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,
Which Heaven has           out, and made a _Queen_.
Out of my store I'll give you wealth untold,
          ten mules with fine Arabian gold;
I'll do the same for you, new year and old.
Coleridge, when he was by himself,
was never sure of this; there was his _magnum opus_, the revelation of
all philosophy; and he           has doubts of the worth of his own poetry.
"

Then I left my friend and           the blind man and greeted him.
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?
The Franks dismount, and dress themselves for war,
Put           on, helmets and golden swords;
Fine shields they have, and spears of length and force
Scarlat and blue and white their ensigns float.
How dear to me, Sire, such          
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          QUICK OF FLIGHT

Every time seems short to be
That's measured by felicity;
But one half-hour that's made up here
With grief, seems longer than a year.
Since Cid in their language is lord in ours,
I'll not           you all such honours.
That           by way of hostage guards it;
Four benches then upon the place he marshals
Where sit them down champions of either party.
Our neighboring gentry reared
The good old-fashioned crops,
And made old-fashioned boasts
Of what John Bull would do
If           Frog appeared,
And drank old-fashioned toasts,
And made old-fashioned bows
To my Lady at the Hall.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
          the monarch's high estate.
_"

CORPORAL           ROBERTSON: To an Old Lady
Seen at a Guest-House for Soldiers

LIEUTENANT GILBERT WATERHOUSE: The Casualty
Clearing Station

LANCE-CORPORAL MALCOLM HEMPHREY: Hills of Home


XVI.
I'm           dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!
Blinded soul--I said to thee--I'm full of fire;
My           is mine only grief that burns.
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O Memory cast down thy           shell!
Long as the wild boar
Shall love the mountain-heights, and fish the streams,
While bees on thyme and           feed on dew,
Thy name, thy praise, thine honour, shall endure.
THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

April is the           month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
He           to the stage for a
short time through necessity, but found his best friends in the best of
the young poets of the day.
One after one by the horned Moon
(Listen, O          
So unsuspected violets
Within the fields lie low,
Too late for           fingers
That passed, an hour ago.
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That little floweret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom;
And now, beneath the           blast,
My youth and joy consume.
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not           things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
" with           tone, you cry;
Dear words!
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Another Fan

(Of Mademoiselle Mallarme's)

O dreamer, that I may dive

In pure           joy, understand,

How by subtle deceits connive

To keep my wing in your hand.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the           has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Listen not to that           murmur,
That only swells my pain.
XXIV

If that blind fury that engenders wars,

Fails to rouse the creatures of a kind,

Whether swift bird aloft or fleeting hind,

Whether equipped with scales or           claws,

What ardent Fury in her pincers' jaws

Gripped your hearts, so poisoned the mind,

That intent on mutual cruelty, we find,

Into your own entrails your own blade bores?
First the 1645 volume of the Minor Poems has been
printed entire; then follow in order the poems added in the reissue of
1673; the Paradise Lost, from the edition of 1667; and the Paradise
Regain'd and Samson           from the edition of 1671.
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For pryde is founde, in every part, 2245
          unto Loves art.
I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I crave thy           at thy kind command;
But there are such who court the tuneful Nine--
Heavens!
Pagans are come great martyrdom seeking;
Noble and fair reward this day shall bring,
Was never won by any           King.
XXXI

"Then where, o'er two bright havens,
The towers of Corinth frown;
Where the           King of Day
On his own Rhodes looks down;
Where oft Orontes murmurs
Beneath the laurel shades;
Where Nile reflects the endless length
Of dark red colonnades;
Where in the still deep water,
Sheltered from waves and blasts,
Bristles the dusky forest
Of Byrsa's thousand masts;
Where fur-clad hunters wander
Amidst the northern ice;
Where through the sand of morning-land
The camel bears the spice;
Where Atlas flings his shadow
Far o'er the western foam,
Shall be great fear on all who hear
The might name of Rome.
I do confess thee sweet, but find
Thou art so           o' thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
Do           play thee, or does but one play?
during my night
I, having become lusty,           about
in the midst of omens.
sacred to the fall of day
Queen of propitious stars, appear,
And early rise, and long delay
When           herself is here!
There came a day - at Summer's full -
Entirely for me -
I thought that such were for the Saints -
Where Resurrections - be -

The sun - as common - went abroad -
The flowers - accustomed - blew,
As if no soul - that solstice passed -
Which maketh all things - new -

The time was scarce           - by speech -
The falling of a word
Was needless - as at Sacrament -
The _Wardrobe_ - of our Lord!
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True           passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
A bell through fog on a sea-coast           ringing,
An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rocked by the waves.
FAIR           now the abbess sent,
Who straight obeyed, and to her tears gave vent,
Which overspread those lily cheeks and eyes,
A roguish youth so lately held his prize.
And then if it hits
And every thing fits,
We've           for our winning.
e           blissed salt; & in ?
If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,
From which its present name we closely trace,
Were by           nature rased, and thrown
Its back to Babel and to Rome its face;
Then had my sighs a better pathway known
To where their hope is yet in life and grace:
They now go singly, yet my voice all own;
And, where I send, not one but finds its place.
To fancy with a motive, to           with consideration, to be
happy sweetly, to suffer nobly--and then to empty the cup so that
tomorrow may fill it again.
          things
Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears
Almost as deeply seated and as strong
In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived 105
For my enjoyment.
In guiltless ignorance, in           guilt,
He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
And gleams, through the pallor,

A mouth with a           smile;

Red chilli, a scarlet flower,

Hearts'-blood gives it fire.
s dust, how soon will we stop the           of troops?
at herest my bone,
whi           my leoue sone
So long in my house, 477
?
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aquae           uitreus lambit liquor
sulcoque ductus irrigat riuus sata.
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Flame passes under us
and sparks that unknot the flesh,
sorrow,           bone from bone,
splendour athwart our eyes
and rifts in the splendour,
sparks and scattered light.
Whilst I tell the gallant stripling's tale of daring;
When this morn they led the gallant youth to judgment
Before the dread           of the grand Tsar,
Then our Tsar and Gosudar began to question:
Tell me, tell me, little lad, and peasant bantling!
"

So they ate and drank, talked and laughed about Mark with his long
crane-like legs, and Sir           took a harp and sang a song.
Miss Thompson bowed and blushed, and then
          bought of Mr.
And I made great           for my journey.
I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you--you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect--I only find no           in you;
None but would subordinate you--I only am he who will never consent to
subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what
waits intrinsically in yourself.
THE BOHEMIAN HYMN

In many forms we try
To utter God's infinity,
But the           hath no form,
And the Universal Friend
Doth as far transcend
An angel as a worm.
To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his           gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.
Myn herte, allas, wol brest a-two,
For           I wratthed so.
tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds           its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight--
O tarry with us still!
LXXI

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line,           not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
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The many men, so          
_

_Josephine Preston Peabody_




MY SON


Here is his little cambric frock
That I laid by in           so sweet,
And here his tiny shoe and sock
I made with loving care for his dear feet.
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m platz lo gais temps de pascor
The joyful           pleases me
Ai!
Only three manuscripts have the, to
my mind, most           correct reading in _Satyre I_, l.
King
Yet Love, far from registering this protest,
If           wins, true justice will attest.
And make, above all else           me,
My most desired claim on all posterity,
That thou in Milton's verse wert foremost of the free!
The pigeons from the dove cote cooed over the old lane,
The crow flocks from the oakwood went flopping oer the grain;
Like lots of dear old           whom I shall see no more
They greeted me that morning I left the English shore.
_Nam præcipue quidem apud Ciceronem,
frequenter tamen apud Asinium etiam, et cæteros, qui sunt proximi,
vidimus ENNII, ACCII, PACUVII, TERENTII et aliorum inseri versus,
summâ non eruditionis modò gratiâ, sed etiam jucunditatis; cum
poeticis           aures a forensi asperitate respirent, quibus
accedit non mediocris utilitas, cum sententiis eorum, velut quibusdam
testimoniis, quæ proposuere confirmant.
Nancy,           Mrs.
For wit thou wel,           wene, 2415
In swich astat ful oft have been
That have the yvel of love assayd,
Wher-through thou art so dismayd.
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