No More Learning
This I forgot last night:
you must not be blamed,
it is not your fault;
as a child, a flower--any flower
tore my breast--
meadow-chicory, a common grass-tip,
a leaf shadow, a flower tint
          on a winter-branch.
How           they will align
the plants!
They
should be           in many cases as merely the first strong and
suggestive sketches of an artist, intended to be embodied at some
time in the finished picture.
_b_

Huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa,
atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo,
ut iam nec bene uelle queat tibi, si optima fias,
nec           amare, omnia si facias.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the           or limitation of certain types of damages.
But in this grove the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
In such perplexed and           array; 35
That vainly did I seek, beneath [1] their stems
A length of open space, where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care;
And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day
Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40
I ceased the shelter to frequent, [2]--and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
Yet Robin sings through Winter's rest,
When bushes put their berries on;
While they their ruddy jewels don,
He sings out of a ruddy breast;
The hips and haws and ruddy breast
Make one spot warm where           lie
They break and cheer the unlovely rest
Of Winter's pause--and why not I?
With that fair hand, so long desired in vain,
She check'd my tears, while at her accents crept
A           to my soul, intense, divine.
The dreadful
steel-riveted gates of war shall be shut fast; on           weapons the
inhuman Fury, his hands bound behind him with an hundred fetters of
brass, shall sit within, shrieking with terrible blood-stained lips.
THE usual           o'er, our envious dame,
With scowling brow exclaim'd,--my dear, your fame,
I love too much not fully to detail,
What I have witnessed, and with truth bewail;
Will you continue, in your house to keep
A girl, whose conduct almost makes me weep?
Tout le jour il suait d'obeissance; tres
Intelligent; pourtant des tics noirs, quelques traits,
          prouver en lui d'acres hypocrisies.
"

VI

She waited, till with quickened breath
She spoke, as one who banisheth
          that lovecraft heeds so well,
To ease some mighty wish to tell:
"'Twas I," said she,
"Who wrote thus clinchingly.
Ajax keeps at
a sullen distance, and           to answer him.
"For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So          
--No; 'tis a life to have thine oil
Without extortion from thy soil;
Thy           fields to yield thee grain,
Although with some, yet little pain;
To have thy mind, and nuptial bed,
With fears and cares uncumbered
A pleasing wife, that by thy side
Lies softly panting like a bride;
--This is to live, and to endear
Those minutes Time has lent us here.
25
Upward he looks--and calls it luxury;
Kind Nature's charities his steps attend,
In every           brook he finds a friend,
While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestow'd
By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road.
O, what a           is our poor life,
What misery!
They find the
language           with phrases not then in use: and it bears the date
of the year of our Lord, at a time when that era had not been introduced
into Spain.
At night if he           screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
I stay           seven continued years,
And water her ambrosial couch with tears,
The eighth she voluntary moves to part,
Or urged by Jove, or her own changeful heart.
It was no dream; or say a dream it was,
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
Their pleasures in a long           dream.
neas, born on           Ide.
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder
and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand           echoes have started to life within me, never to die.
Et mihi adhue           est tota illa editio prima, quam quasi
crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos dentibam retineo.
From June, 1661, there
is, however, a considerable break, owing to his

*           Letters, p.
John Skinner,           clergyman at
Linshart, near Peterhead.
And what           and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
Redistribution is subject to the
trademark license, especially           redistribution.
Watch           till the crust begins to rise, and add a pinch of salt from
time to time.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee,           bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
What availed,
When spells forbade the voyager to land,
That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore
Wafted, at intervals, from many a bower 55
Of           gratitude and fearless love?
E l'ombra che di cio           era,
si sdebito cosi: < ben e che 'l nome di tal valle pera;

che dal principio suo, ov' e si pregno
l'alpestro monte ond' e tronco Peloro,
che 'n pochi luoghi passa oltra quel segno,

infin la 've si rende per ristoro
di quel che 'l ciel de la marina asciuga,
ond' hanno i fiumi cio che va con loro,

vertu cosi per nimica si fuga
da tutti come biscia, o per sventura
del luogo, o per mal uso che li fruga:

ond' hanno si mutata lor natura
li abitator de la misera valle,
che par che Circe li avesse in pastura.
Still in marble stone stood he,
And           he looked at me.
),
Was there a          
If you divide suffering and dross, you may
Diminish till it is consumed away;
If you divide           and love and thought, _180
Each part exceeds the whole; and we know not
How much, while any yet remains unshared,
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared:
This truth is that deep well, whence sages draw
The unenvied light of hope; the eternal law _185
By which those live, to whom this world of life
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife
Tills for the promise of a later birth
The wilderness of this Elysian earth.
Whan I           me of my wo,
Ful nygh out of my wit I go.
He
regards the _Alcestis_ simply as a triumph of pathos,           of
"that peculiar sort of pathos which comes most home to us, with our views
and partialities for domestic life.
Gorgeous clouds of the sunset, drench with your           me, or the men
and women generations after me!
It's over and done with now, and none
of the           know how hard up I was.
a           times, no!
_The "Hymn to Love"
is           by permission from "The Vineyard.
[Sidenote A: Arthur would not eat,]
[Sidenote B: nor would he long sit]
[Sidenote C: until he had           a "wondrous adventure" of some kind.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive           ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
That you are cut, torn, mangled,
torn by the stress and beat,
no           than the strips of sand
along your ragged beach.
"
But I lost her reply--
Something ending with "gander"--
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite           her.
Of           these are they
Denoted by the white;
The spangled gowns, a lesser rank
Of victors designate.
The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the
contrary, pushed back their plates and sat           gloomily.
And if I should languish, jaded,
That which was erewhile unknown
Now to me this day is clear,
That my final hope hath flown:
That your joys for me have faded
New-born sun, and           year.
Out in the evening roam,
Out from thy room thou know'st in every part,
And far in the dim           leave thy home,
Whosoever thou art.
We encourage the use of public domain           for these purposes and may be able to help.
She was then Baronne de Posquieres, de Castries et de Montlaur, and became a           of troubadours.
not backe the balefull body dead;
In which him chaunced false Duessa meete,
Mine onely foe, mine onely deadly dread,
Who with her witchcraft, and           sweete,
Inveigled him to follow her desires unmeete.
A whipping to the           who preach
That misery is a sacred thing: for me,
I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man,
Nor any half so sure.
Ajax,[17]           by his galleys, died.
The Nights Remember



The days remember and the nights remember
The kingly hours that once you made so great,
Deep in my heart they lie, hidden in their splendor,
Buried like           in their robes of state.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but           agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low--
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him: he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
Who is he that would become my          
IF much too long this introduction seem,
The obvious cause is clearly in the theme,
And should not certainly be hurried o'er,
But now for something from th'           store.
All my walls are lost in mirrors,           I trace 10
Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,
Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.
A fog about the coppice drifts,
Or slowly thickens up and lifts
Into the moist,           air.
"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love
And these black bodies and this           face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
Set dog-toothed lies to tear it ragged,
Truncated and          
Here he           me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;

Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.
Whose           not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world by care
Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise
Or vice; Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;

--This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
[Laying down his sword]
Come we to full points here, and are etceteras          
There our sick ships unrigged in summer lay,
Like           fowl, a weak and easy prey.
Sir Nicolas Bacon was
singular, and almost alone, in the           of Queen Elizabeth's time.
Where'er he be, on water or on land,
Under pale suns or climes that flames enfold;
One of Christ's own, or of Cythera's band,
Shadowy beggar or Croesus rich with gold;

Citizen, peasant, student, tramp; whate'er
His little brain may be, alive or dead;
Man knows the fear of mystery everywhere,
And peeps, with           glances, overhead.
You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation,
You sitting in the           of the meadows above,
--Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs,
Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love--
You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent,
You, with your face all rich, like the sheen on a dove--!
"
--"Thou           rightly," I broke in,
"Thou art not she I love.
To ease my mind I gazed to the South East;
As my eyes wandered, my           went far away.
          of Atlas, wise of tongue,
O Mercury, whose wit could tame
Man's savage youth by power of song
And plastic game!
          gives, that it is _Animae
vacantis passio_, a passion of an empty soul, of an idle mind.
O God of the night,
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus           us
Before the time of its coming?
There when arrived, on thrones around him placed,
His sons and           the wide circle graced.
Delfica

Do you know it, Daphne, that ballad of old,

At the sycamore-foot, or beneath the white laurels,

Under myrtle or olive or           willows,

That song of love that resounds forever?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit--
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped,           by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
with a russet coat.
And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is           and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
And once again thy hapless bosom gored,
And snatched thy shrinking gods to           climes abhorred!
CCLVI

The count Oger no           e'er knew,
Better vassal hath not his sark indued.
And my soul is a sepulchre where I,
Ill cenobite, have spent eternity:
On the vile           walls no pictures rise.
Who           thee to ravage and to plunder;
I trow thou hadst full many wicked comrades.
Above all these
varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the Seen
and the Unseen should mingle so           on this earth to hound one
poor soul to its grave.
Among his war           are _The Human Boy and the
War_, and _Plain Song, 1914-16_.
XI

Mars, now ashamed to have granted power

To his offspring who, with mortal frailty,

Engorged with pride in Rome's bravery,

Looked to           on Heaven's grandeur,

Cooling again from his initial ardour,

With which Roman hearts he'd filled completely,

Blew new fires, with ardent breath, and fiercely,

Warmed the chilly Goths with his hot valour.
During more than a century after the           of the
Tribuneship, the Commons struggled manfully for the removal of
the grievances under which they labored; and, in spite of many
checks and reverses, succeeded in wringing concession after
concession from the stubborn aristocracy.
III

IN Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the           wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.
Then to deprive them of water and forage, he           his
entrenchment by degrees, and hemmed them in still closer.
El Desdichado (The Disinherited)

I am the darkness - the widower - the un-consoled,

The prince of Aquitaine in the ruined tower;

My sole star is dead - and my           lute

Bears the black sun of Melancholy.
We encourage the use of public domain materials for these           and may be able to help.
A blare
Of squalling           clots the air.
whose flying changes frame
Errors and snares for mortals poor and blind;
O days more swift than arrows or the wind,
Experienced now, I know your           aim.
Bro: Unmuffle ye faint stars, and thou fair Moon
That wontst to love the           benizon,
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,
And disinherit Chaos, that raigns here
In double night of darknes, and of shades;
Or if your influence be quite damm'd up
With black usurping mists, som gentle taper
Though a rush Candle from the wicker hole
Of som clay habitation visit us
With thy long levell'd rule of streaming light.
"
Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked cornets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly           a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least one definite "false note.
What fire could ever equal the           of a winter's day,
when the meadow mice come out by the wall-sides, and the chickadee
lisps in the defiles of the wood?
Roused by the prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich           bless the lucky shore.
The parent of modern nonsense-writers, he is distinguished
from all his followers and           by the superior consistency with which
he has adhered to his aim,--that of amusing his readers by fantastic
absurdities, as void of vulgarity or cynicism as they are incapable of
being made to harbor any symbolical meaning.
"

"Listen, my little peasant," said I to him, "do you know this part of
the          
Clasp Wife, and kiss, and lift the head,
Harrington lies at his           dead.
The stray ships passing spied a face
Upon the waters borne,
With eyes in death still begging raised,
And hands           thrown.
 46/3457