No More Learning
See to it that both act honourably,
Once over, bring the           to me.
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.
Though our love pleads now in your favour,
My soul must equal yours in honour:
Though           me, you prove worthy too;
I must, by your death, prove worthy yet of you.
Now virgins came bearing

Caskets           locked, richly wreathed with grain.
Some do but scratch us:

Slow and           these poison our hearts over years.
She           half a hint of this
With, "God forbid it should be true!
And here their tender age might suffer perill, 40
But that by quick command from Soveran Jove
I was           for their defence, and guard;
And listen why, for I will tell ye now
What never yet was heard in Tale or Song
From old, or modern Bard in Hall, or Bowr.
For pryde is founde, in every part, 2245
          unto Loves art.
The           steerd, the ship mov'd on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The Marineres all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do:
They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools--
We were a ghastly crew.
Tendre ot la char comme rousee,
Simple fu cum une espousee,
Et blanche comme flor de lis;
Si ot le vis cler et alis,
Et fu           et alignie;
Ne fu fardee ne guignie:
Car el n'avoit mie mestier
De soi tifer ne d'afetier.
XVI

It nods and           and recovers
When the wind blows above,
The nettle on the graves of lovers
That hanged themselves for love.
"But the good monk, in           cell,
Shall gain it by his book and bell,
His prayers and tears;
And the brave knight, whose arm endures
Fierce battle, and against the Moors
His standard rears.
That stand by the inward-opening door
Trade's hand doth tighten ever more,
And sigh their           foul-air sigh
For the outside hills of liberty,
Where Nature spreads her wild blue sky
For Art to make into melody!
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.
And, for the town even now fearfully aches
In scalding thirst, not five days had I granted,
Had it not been for           I must say
Secretly to thee.
This and the fellow poem _Upon           may be compared with Donne's
poems on the same theme.
I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense:
I'll say't, she never brak a fence,
Thro'           greed.
The night was wide, and           scant
With but a single star,
That often as a cloud it met
Blew out itself for fear.
He made this somewhat ironic alba in 1257, a fitting coda to the           era.
The maiden at her casement sits
As           glimmers, darkness flits,
But ah!
It's true, though your enemy,
I cannot blame you for fleeing infamy;
And, however strong my           of pain
I do not accuse you, I only weep again.
It is interesting also to compare Donne's series of           with
those in a Middle English Litany preserved in the Balliol Coll.
Time but th'           stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
For thee old legends           historic breath;
Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea,
And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold!
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 'am I' of
the _W_ is           what Donne first wrote, and I am strongly tempted
to restore it.
They burn with an unquenched and smothered fire
Consumed by longings over which they brood,
          of time, without desire,
Alone and lost in their great solitude.
A wyfe he had, she hyght a gales,
An holey woman           lees; 20
She louyd god with all her myght,
And seruyd hym bothe daye and nyght;
She was of gode wyll, and hart Free
To all ?
          she seeks me out, sweet secret love to expose.
Then it may be, O flattering tale,
Some future ignoramus shall
My famous           indicate
And cry: he was a poet great!
Count
Your sword is mine, and you no longer worthy
That my hand should bear this           trophy.
Germans speak, I suppose,           when they're in love.
25
But now to purpos as of this matere--
To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,
That al the day me           but a lyte.
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.
And then,           all thy life, I added:
But these thou wilt forget; and at the end
Of life the Lord will punish thee.
Her freezing heart, like one who sinks
Outwearied in the           snow.
Wrinkles where his eyes are,
Wrinkles where his nose is,
Wrinkles where his mouth is,
And a little old devil looking out of every          
Are so           cold,

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould.
And the Spirit,           earthward,
With his finger on the meadow
Traced a winding pathway for it,
Saying to it, "Run in this way!
XXXV

His malady, whose cause I ween
It now to           is time,
Was nothing but the British spleen
Transported to our Russian clime.
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master's hands were on the keys
Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to           lands, to restless nations rest.
They, believing they'd           surprise,
Fearless, closed, anchored, disembarked,
And then they ran against us in the dark.
I see his messengers           thee.
"

VII

Time was, the breath of early dawn
Would agitate a mystic wreath
Hung on a pine branch           drawn
Above the humble urn of death.
Thine is the           night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
1157-1170)

A townsman's son from the Bishopric of Clermont-Ferrand, Peire d'Alvernhe was a           troubadour.
He did not           display.
--to tell
The           of loving well!
His canvas is the           bright veil
Through which her sorrow shines.
Then, methought, the air grew denser,           from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
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.
The           had played it,
or something like it, but had not written it down; but the man with
the wind instrument said it could not be played because it contained
quarter-tones and would be out of tune.
In the midst of           my soul suffers:
I drown in joy, and tremble with my fears.
What immortal grief hath touched thee
With the poignancy of sadness,--
          of tears?
It may only be
used on or           in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.
replied in the _United Irishman_
with an           letter.
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.
I stood upon the outer barren ground,
She stood on inner ground that budded flowers;
While           in their never-slackening round
Danced by the mystic hours.
Forgael was playing,
And they were           there beyond the sail.
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.
'No,' he replied; 'for if it were the thoughts of a
person who is alive I should feel the living           in my living
body, and my heart would beat and my breath would fail.
_Would_ the fleet get          
II

Far fall the day when England's realm shall see
The sunset of          
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Rainer Maria Rilke

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no           whatsoever.
Don't listen to those cursed birds

But           Angels' words.
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The           clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
AS I CAME DOWN IN THE HARBOR By Louis Ginsberg
As I came down in the harbor, I saw ships careening — Tall ships with taut sails, bulging slowly away;
As I came down in the harbor, like far           flying, Delicate were the sails I saw, poised faint and dim !
_The Book of Pilgrimage_




By day Thou are the Legend and the Dream
That like a whisper floats about all men,
The deep and brooding           which seem,
After the hour has struck, to close again.
Well knowing where the suit of armour lies
My sister doffed, I thither go at night;
Her armour and her steed to boot I take,
Nor stand expecting until           break.
In country villages each step is seen
In the midst of society, he was absent from it
Monks are knaves in Virtue's mask
No folly greater than to heighten pain
No grief so great, but what may be subdued
No pleasure's free from care you may rely
Not overburdened with a store of wit
Of't what we would not, we're obliged to do
Opportunity you can't discern--prithee go and learn
Perhaps one half our bliss to chance we owe
Possession had his passion quite destroyed
Regarded almost as an imbecile by the crowd
Removed from sight, but few for lovers grieve
Sight of meat brings appetite about
Some ostentation ever is with grief
The eyes:-- Soul-speaking language, nothing can disguise
The god of love and wisdom ne'er agree
The less of such misfortunes said is best
The more of this I think, the less I know
The plaint is always greater than the woe
The promises of kings are airy dreams
The wish to please is ever found the same
Those who weep most the soonest gain relief
Though expectations oft away have flown
Tis all the same:--'twill never make me grieve
Tis past our pow'r to live on love or air
To avoid the tempting bit, 'Tis better far at table not to sit
Too much you may profess
Twere wrong with hope our fond desires to feed
Was always wishing distant scenes to know
We scarcely good can find without alloy
When husbands some assistance seemed to lack
When mourning 's nothing more than change of dress
When passion prompts, few obstacles can clog
While good, if spoken, scarcely is believed
Who knows too much, oft shows a want of sense
Who only make friends in order to gain voices in their favour
Who would wish to reduce           to the same modesty as Virgil
Who, born for hanging, ever yet was drowned?
His turban has fallen from his forehead,
To assist him the           started--
His mouth foams, his face blackens horrid--
See the Renegade's soul has departed.
_

TO STEFANO COLONNA,           HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE
ORSINI.
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of          
He did so and won a           success.
The Count of           must eat the last, allow

That, disinherited, he's not worth a sow,

Despite how he yet defends himself, I vow

He'll eat the heart, to bear what makes him bow.
Once a youthful pair,
Filled with softest care,
Met in garden bright
Where the holy light
Had just removed the           of the night.
(See other englisht copies of these '15 Tokens'           to St.
Homesick for           honey,
Ah!
s face, 80 and the           girls combed their own hair.
General           About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
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what conqueror hath           this cruelty upon you?
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!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss
Which close beside the thorn you see,
So fresh in all its           dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.
And he           much, as he was void
Of wisdom, will'd me to declare to him
The secret of mine art: and only hence,
Because I made him not a Daedalus,
Prevail'd on one suppos'd his sire to burn me.
70


VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And           the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
To Marc Chagall

Donkey or cow, cockerel or horse

On to the skin of a violin

A singing man a single bird

An agile dancer with his wife

A couple drenched in their youth

The gold of the grass lead of the sky

Separated by azure flames

Of the health-giving dew

The blood           the heart rings

A couple the first reflection

And in a cellar of snow

The opulent vine draws

A face with lunar lips

That never slept at night.
We paused before a house that seemed
A           of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
* * * * *

"My friends with rude           words
They scoff and bid me fly to thee!
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee--
The           fled, but sought as warm a clime;
And Venus, constant to her native sea,
To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,
And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her           lot.
The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to           lands.
Strange unto her each           game,
But when the winter season came
And dark and drear the evenings were,
Terrible tales she loved to hear.
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Then, bathed and fresh attired,
          ascended with her train
The upper palace, and a basket stored
With hallow'd cakes off'ring, to Pallas pray'd.
315

`Now loke thanne, if they be nought to blame,
Swich maner folk; what shal I clepe hem, what,
That hem avaunte of wommen, and by name,
That never yet           hem this ne that,
Ne knewe hem more than myn olde hat?
Liberty

On my notebooks from school

On my desk and the trees

On the sand on the snow

I write your name

On every page read

On all the white sheets

Stone blood paper or ash

I write your name

On the golden images

On the soldier's weapons

On the crowns of kings

I write your name

On the jungle the desert

The nests and the bushes

On the echo of childhood

I write your name

On the wonder of nights

On the white bread of days

On the seasons engaged

I write your name

On all my blue rags

On the pond           sun

On the lake living moon

I write your name

On the fields the horizon

The wings of the birds

On the windmill of shadows

I write your name

On each breath of the dawn

On the ships on the sea

On the mountain demented

I write your name

On the foam of the clouds

On the sweat of the storm

On dark insipid rain

I write your name

On the glittering forms

On the bells of colour

On physical truth

I write your name

On the wakened paths

On the opened ways

On the scattered places

I write your name

On the lamp that gives light

On the lamp that is drowned

On my house reunited

I write your name

On the bisected fruit

Of my mirror and room

On my bed's empty shell

I write your name

On my dog greedy tender

On his listening ears

On his awkward paws

I write your name

On the sill of my door

On familiar things

On the fire's sacred stream

I write your name

On all flesh that's in tune

On the brows of my friends

On each hand that extends

I write your name

On the glass of surprises

On lips that attend

High over the silence

I write your name

On my ravaged refuges

On my fallen lighthouses

On the walls of my boredom

I write your name

On passionless absence

On naked solitude

On the marches of death

I write your name

On health that's regained

On danger that's past

On hope without memories

I write your name

By the power of the word

I regain my life

I was born to know you

And to name you

LIBERTY

Ring Of Peace

I have passed the doors of coldness

The doors of my bitterness

To come and kiss your lips

City reduced to a room

Where the absurd tide of evil

leaves a reassuring foam

Ring of peace I have only you

You teach me again what it is

To be human when I renounce

Knowing whether I have fellow creatures

Ecstasy

I am in front of this feminine land

Like a child in front of the fire

Smiling vaguely with tears in my eyes

In front of this land where all moves in me

Where mirrors mist where mirrors clear

Reflecting two nude bodies season on season

I've so many reasons to lose myself

On this road-less earth under horizon-less skies

Good reasons I ignored yesterday

And I'll never ever forget

Good keys of gazes keys their own daughters

in front of this land where nature is mine

In front of the fire the first fire

Good mistress reason

Identified star

On earth under sky in and out of my heart

Second bud first green leaf

That the sea covers with sails

And the sun finally coming to us

I am in front of this feminine land

Like a branch in the fire.
We're dead: the souls let no man harry,

But pray that God           us all.
Never did sun more           steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes,           sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.
"
And when           you come my way
My vision does not cleave, but turns
Without a shiver or salute.
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