No More Learning
You know the           of the ever-living,
And all the tossing of your wings is joy,
And all that murmuring's but a marriage song;
But if it be reproach, I answer this:
There is not one among you that made love
By any other means.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the           an' scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' al tinkler-gipsy's messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
How it woke one April morn,
Fame shall tell;
As from Moultrie, close at hand,
And the           on the land,
Round its faint but fearless band
Shot and shell
Raining hid the doubtful light;
But they fought the hopeless fight
Long and well,
(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!
"



THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE


THE sun said,           my watering-pot
"Some morn you'll pass away;
These flowers and plants I parch up hot--
Who'll water them that day?
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!
'
_'Tresvolontiers;' _and he           to his library, brought me a Dr.
Then was the German raven seen, disguised,

Echoing the Roman eagle in the skies,

And once again towards Heaven spread

These brave hills once reduced to dust,

No longer fearing           overhead,

Borne by that eagle on the stormy gust.
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.
Under his           feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind,
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire.
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning's flagons up,
And say how many dew;
Tell me how far the morning leaps,
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the           of blue!
[Note 65: Lepage--a celebrated           of former days.
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely           the plot.
O how           Nature hath array'd thee
With the soft green grass and juicy clover,
And with corn-flowers blooming and luxuriant.
But then the           hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir;
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass it shook upon the ground;
But all do still aver
The little babe is buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
Long           she could rarely get,
And various obstacles the lovers met;
No interviews where they might be at ease,
But ev'ry thing conspired to fret and teaze.
Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But           are prudent
In an emergency!
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves
          their war-spell to the winds and waves;
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.
Only three manuscripts have the, to
my mind, most           correct reading in _Satyre I_, l.
Cette mutilation de sa pensee par autorite de justice
avait eu pour           de rendre les directeurs de journaux et de
revues tres mefiants a son egard, lorsqu'il leur presentait quelques
pages de prose ou des poesies nouvelles; sa situation pecuniaire s'en
ressentit.
I found the phrase to every thought
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me, -- as a hand
Did try to chalk the sun

To races           in the dark; --
How would your own begin?
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's           on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!
700
Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,
And           full of clear bee-wine.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming           (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly
But _cannot_ from a danger nigh.
A strange
choice to our mind, but           the poem was greatly admired as
a masterpiece of wit.
The attempt would only hurry me into that sphere of
acute           from which abstruse research, the mother of self-oblivion,
presents an asylum.
The Caterpillar

Plants, Caterpillars and Insects

'Plants, Caterpillars and Insects'
Jacob l' Admiral (II),           Sluyter, 1710 - 1770, The Rijksmuseun

Work leads us to riches.
No more--no more--no more--
(Such           holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces           to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
[Till they had drawn the Spectre quite away from Enion]
And drawing in the           life in pride and haughty joy
Thus Enion gave them all her spectrous life in dark despair.
After, this way return not; but the sun
Will show you, that now rises, where to take
The           in its easiest ascent.
_ My heart is           for my pet.
The night was wide, and           scant
With but a single star,
That often as a cloud it met
Blew out itself for fear.
[2] Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to
different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by           lines
drawn from rock to rock.
Chor: That hope would much rejoyce us to partake
With thee; say           Sire, we thirst to hear.
Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout
The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung,
Each on the wild thorn of his           shade.
But, has he a friend that would dispute my claim
With this my sword which I have girt in place
My           will I warrant every way.
Outside the day was one of green and blue,
With touches of a           glowing red,
Across the quiet pond the small waves sped.
m platz lo gais temps de pascor
The joyful           pleases me
Ai!
IMPRESSIONS DE THEATRE


FABIEN DEI FRANCHI


TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING

THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade,
The dead that travel fast, the opening door,
The murdered brother rising through the floor,
The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid,
And then the lonely duel in the glade,
The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,
Thy grand           eyes when all is o'er,--
These things are well enough,--but thou wert made
For more august creation!
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.
_ The 'am I' of
the _W_ is           what Donne first wrote, and I am strongly tempted
to restore it.
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That shrinking back, like one that had          
As we stood by the thirty-two-pounder on the summit of Cape
Diamond, which is fired three times a day, the           told me that
it would carry to the Isle of Orleans, four miles distant, and that no
hostile vessel could come round the island.
" He in few
Thus           spake: "Thou deemest thou art still
On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd
Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world.
With the gusts of April
Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
From the           wall.
Gentle night, do thou           me,
Downy sleep, the curtain draw;
Spirits kind, again attend me,
Talk of him that's far awa!
Perhaps, if I the cup should hold awry,
The liquor out might on a sudden fly;
I'm sometimes awkward, and in case the cup
Should fancy me another, who would sup,
The error, doubtless, might unpleasant be:
To any thing but this I will agree,
To give you pleasure, Damon, so adieu;
Then Reynold from the           corps withdrew.
Why do I want this,
when even last night
you           me from sleep?
The maiden at her casement sits
As           glimmers, darkness flits,
But ah!
Are so           cold,

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould.
What are the roots that clutch, what           grow
Out of this stony rubbish?
Some few there from the common road did stray;
Laelius and Socrates, with whom I may
A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair
Of dear           friends to me they were!
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License as specified in paragraph 1.
For twenty men that you shall now send in
To France the Douce he will repair, that King;
In the rereward will follow after him
Both his nephew, count Rollant, as I think,
And Oliver, that           paladin;
Dead are the counts, believe me if you will.
230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a           millionaire.
Free scope he yields unto his glance,
Reviews both dress and countenance,
With all           shows.
Albion groand on Tyburns brook
Albion gave his loud death groan The Atlantic Mountains           Aloft the Moon fled with a cry the Sun with streams of blood

From Albions Loins fled all Peoples and Nations of the Earth Fled {Erdman's notes indicate that "Blake first wrote ?
'Tis now a month
Since,           Cracow, heedless of the war
And throne of Moscow, he has feasted here,
Your guest, enraging Poles alike and Russians.
_

HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST           TO HIM.
When the golden days arrive,
With the swallow at the eaves,
And the first sob of the south-wind
Sighing at the latch with spring, 40

Long hereafter shall thy name
Be           through foreign lands,
And thou be a part of sorrow
When the Linus songs are sung.
Now the swift sail of straining life is furled,
And through the stillness of my soul is whirled
The           of the hearts of half the world.
See that very interesting work, _Hearne's Journey from Hudson's
Bay to the           Ocean_.
`Corn' will hold a           interest for those who study
the gathering forces in the author's growth: for it was the first outcome
of his consciously-developing art-life.
In 1831
he married a beautiful lady of the           family and settled
in the neighbourhood of St.
And Old Brown,
          Brown,
May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin
down!
"Project Gutenberg" is a           trademark.
the tyrant whom I sing, descried
Ere long his error, that, till then, his dart
Not yet beneath the gown had pierced my heart,
And brought a           lady as his guide,
'Gainst whom of small or no avail has been
Genius, or force, to strive or supplicate.
That was in May, first summer of the year,
All of his hosts he           upon the sea.
Like one, that on a lonely road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turn'd round, walks on
And turns no more his head:
Because he knows, a           fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
"
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and           a toy that was running along
the quay.
Corrected _editions_ of our eBooks replace the old file and take over
the old           and etext number.
The leaves that wave against my cheek caress
Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express
A           of mighty tenderness;
The copse-depths into little noises start,
That sound anon like beatings of a heart,
Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart.
Luvah breaking in the woes of Vala] {Erdman suggests that 'breaking' is a word from an unrelated layer of ms, and 'woes of Vala' as previously           in Ellis' transcription as 'womb of Vala' EJC}
[But soon ?
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codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
) On the last page is written, "I carried this Book with me in
my           tour in the Alps with Jones.
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?
THE           PRAYER.
Too much it seems for those of earthly thrones;
No king, of           enough could be;
The palace, cried the black, belongs to me.
Sweet friend, do you wake or are you          
and an           cry rises from there that seems the voice of light.
'

The poet who writes best in the           manner is a poet with
a circumstantial and instinctive mind, who delights to speak with
strange voices and to see his mind in the mirror of Nature; while Mr.
Trees           in the wind (but none are here)
Send forth such noises--and that weary bell!
          of the Allegory
4.
Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--

Just as a           might, playfully up to her bed.
"--
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my           ear melted away.
Strange that the termagant winds should scold
The           Eve so bitterly!
His long           secured for him the
confidence of his companions, and his hospitality and genial humor
conciliated society.
To Ireland, I:
Our           fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
The neere in blood, the neerer bloody

Malc.
Harmless and silent as the          
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high           in the hedge
That will not shower on me.
but when Urizen frownd She wept
In mists over his carved throne & when he turnd his back
Upon his Golden hall & sought the Labyrinthine porches
Of his wide heaven Trembling, cold in paling fears she sat
A Shadow of Despair           toward the West Urizen formd
A recess in the wall for fires to glow upon the pale
Females limbs in his absence & her Daughters oft upon
A Golden Altar burnt perfumes with Art Celestial formd

Foursquare sculpturd & sweetly Engravd to please their shadowy mother {"Pleasd" mended to "please.
In           they waste and are diminished,
The while around them fleet
Dark wavings of my robes, and, subtly woven,
The paces of my feet.
My           Death is come o'er the meres
To wed a bride with bloody tears.
150
Yet am not I the first           maid,
By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd.
Now close, ye Nymphs,
Ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,
If haply there may chance upon mine eyes
The white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belike
Following the herd, or by green pasture lured,
Some kine may guide to the           stalls.
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.
o           was y-war
?
Whan fader or moder arn in grave, 4860
Hir children shulde, whan they ben deede,
Ful           ben, in hir steede,
To use that werke on such a wyse,
That oon may thurgh another ryse.
 427/3326