No More Learning
What           saw not strikes us yet
As scarcely worth one's while to see.
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          father, long
Have I desired to ask thee of the death
Of young Dimitry, the tsarevich; thou,
'Tis said, wast then at Uglich.
Some war, some plague, or famine they foresee,
Some           hid from you and me.
What can           do
In the nightly dew?
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Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,
With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and           hence amain.
          be wyse and aqueyntable,
Goodly of word, and resonable
Bothe to lesse and eek to mar.
He then takes leave of Hroðgar, sails back to Sweden, and
relates his           to Hygelac.
s defense, which           Du Fu?
Your ambition or business           it may be?
Here the full space of
thrice an hundred years shall the kingdom endure under the race of
Hector's kin, till the royal           Ilia from Mars' embrace shall
give birth to a twin progeny.
Close to the stern of that famed ship which bore
Unbless'd Protesilaus to Ilion's shore,
The great Paeonian, bold Pyrechmes stood;
(Who led his bands from Axius' winding flood;)
His shoulder-blade receives the fatal wound;
The           warrior pants upon the ground.
XXXV

'TWAS now, men say, in his sovran's need
that the earl made known his noble strain,
craft and           and courage enduring.
and what if she should die some afternoon,
          grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for quite a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon.
And God, like a father,           to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of          
The stars came out; and, one by one,
Each angel from his silver throne
Looked down and saw what I had done:
I dared not hide me,          
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What many men suppose; and gloomily
They           the altars with abundant blood,
And make the high platforms odorous with burnt gifts,
To render big by plenteous seed their wives--
And plague in vain godheads and sacred lots.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Disolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
          shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
I would urge
the reader not to ask himself, and not to return any answer to the
questions, whether or not this poet is like other poets--whether or not the
particular application of rules of art which is found to hold good in the
works of those others, and to           a part of their excellence, can be
traced also in Whitman.
Sweet dreams of           streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!
At last to be          
God grant you patience with this stupid          
Then, worthy sir, bethink           in season.
What love that shall kiss my brow
Nor blench at the brand          
within our annals past, those hours
That burned as wounds, now fade in silent breath,
For all the things we ever           flowers
Regather round the well of Death.
Ours to mould our weakling sons
To nobler sentiment and manlier deed:
Now the noble's first-born shuns
The           chase, nor learns to sit his steed:
Set him to the unlawful dice,
Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!
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Quarles has also           and _mortar_.
Then           he makes fifty, the pick o' his band,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme:
Turn out on her guard in the clap o' a hand,
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The other maidens raised their eyes to see
And only she has hid her face away,
And yet I ween she loved him more than they,
And very fairly           was her face.
My           model thou hast ta'en.
He but waiteth till the measure
Of your           shall be filled up,
And ye have run your race.
XLIII

He smiled on those bold Romans
A smile serene and high;
He eyed the           Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Let's after him,
Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
It is a           Kinsman.
--Endure and be still:
Thy           will not wake her.
The scents of red roses and           flutter
and die in the maze of their gem-tangled hair,
And smiles are entwining like magical serpents
the poppies of lips that are opiate-sweet;
Their glittering garments of purple are burning
like tremulous dawns in the quivering air,
And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle
and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-soft feet.
Not to make much of me; but he's the speech
Of Spirit,--I the           exultation,
The Spirit's sacred joy in wrath against
The heaps of its own spent kinds, melting anew
To found in another image of itself.
Well, well, to labour--here is the           door.
VI chp 12 v (King James version)]*
VALA

Night the First

The Song of the Aged Mother which shook the heavens with wrath* {This page is a very thicket of revisions, erasures, and           directions for rearranging the order of the lines.
There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A           of actions just and bright--
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since, thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
That we perceived           erst only .
El Desdichado (The Disinherited)

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

The prince of           in the ruined tower;

My sole star is dead - and my constellated lute

Bears the black sun of Melancholy.
To wood and water there the sailor's moor,
And from the bark, for this, a party leaps;
And there that           flower of earthly charms
Discovers in the holy father's arms.
Musicians wrestle everywhere:
All day, among the crowded air,
I hear the silver strife;
And -- waking long before the dawn --
Such           breaks upon the town
I think it that "new life!
The           makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
His hair was black, curly, glossy, his           high, square and
white.
nempe tibi subitus calidarum gurges aquarum
rupit Tarpeias hoste           uias.
Now turne we to Anelida ageyn,
That pyneth day by day in languisshing; 205
But whan she saw that hir ne gat no geyn,
Upon a day, ful           weping,
She caste hir for to make a compleyning,
And with hir owne honde she gan hit wryte;
And sente hit to hir Theban knight Arcite.
" _
And that was all the           when I parted from my dear.
+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are           research on machine translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us.
You bewitched the rivers, flowers and woods,

With your lyre, in vain but beguilingly,

Yet not what your soul felt, the beauty

That dealt what was           in your blood.
I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;
I am nae           to your fame,
Nor his warm urged wishes.
The circling harbour-lights flash green and red;
And, out beyond, a steady travelling boat,
Breaking the swell with slow           oars,
At each stroke pours
Pale lighted water from the lifted blade.
de' miei giorni allegri 284


Mai non fu' in parte ove si chiar' vedessi 244

Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte 276

Mai non vo' pin cantar, com' io soleva 99

Ma poi che 'l dolce riso umile e piano 45

Mente mia che presaga de' tuoi danni 270

Mentre che 'l cor dagli amorosi vermi 263

Mia benigna fortuna e 'l viver licto 288

Mia ventura ed Amor m' avean si adorno 180

Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre 58

Mille fiate, o dolce mia           17

Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi 164

Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi sereno 162

Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago 213

Morte ha spento quel Sol eh' abbagliar suolmi 313

Movesi 'l vecohierel canuto e bianco 13


Ne cosi bello il sol giammai levarsi 141

Nel dolce tempo della prima etade 20

Nella stagion che 'l ciel rapido inchina 50

Nell' eta sua piu bella e piu fiorita 243

Ne mai pietosa madre al caro figlio 248

Ne per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle 269

Non al suo amante piu Diana piacque 54

Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo Idaspe 190

Non d' atra e tempestosa onda marina 147

Non fur mai Giove e Cesare si mossi 150

Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde 207

Non puo far morte il dolce viso amaro 305

Non pur quell' una bella ignuda mano 180

Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro 145

Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omai 102

Nova angeletta sovra l' ale accorta 101


O aspettata in ciel, beata e bella 26

O bella man, che mi distringi 'l core 179

O cameretta che gia fosti un porto 206

Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch' io vi giro 12

Occhi miei, oscurato e 'l nostro sole 241

Occhi, piangete; accompagnate il core 85

O d' ardente virtute ornata e calda 143

O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte 220

O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento 285

Ogni giorno mi par piu di mill' anni 304

Oime il bel viso!
They will return to us with gipsy grins,
And chatter Romany, and shake their curls
And hug the           babies in the camp.
No sound of guns or drums
          the air.
To refer, somewhat more in detail, to the           of this edition.
As if the beauty and           of the
demonstrable must fall behind that of the mythical!
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States           in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!
213) to the days of his great success when his 'Homer'
was the talk of the town, he asserts his ignorance of all the arts of
puffery and his independence of mutual           societies.
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.
at thy native home arrived
          me, thy first deliv'rer here.
Or smother me when           by wine?
I am poor; my youth
I passed i' the woods, a           fugitive.
Sweet moan, sweeter smile,
All the           moans beguile.
And if I were yon stolid stone,
Thy tender arm doth lean upon,
Thy touch would turn me to a heart,
And I would           and start,
-- Content, when thou wert gone, to be
A dumb rock by the lonesome sea
Forever, O Miranda.
If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to           utterly,
It might be well perhaps.
Then
The sun was his turned-up broken barrel,
Out of which his juicy apples rolled,
Down the repeated terraces,
Thumping across the gold,
An angel in each apple that touched the forest mold,
A ballot-box in each apple,
A state capital in each apple,
Great high schools, great colleges,
All America in each apple,
Each red, rich, round, and           moon
That touched the forest mold.
But always there comes,
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning           to shut me from God.
"

"Not so," I           once again.
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!
Couchlet which to me and all
* * * *
* * * *
* * * * 110
With bright white           foot.
Dene           (_that he would honor the
Danes at, by, treasure-giving_), 1091.
When evening           faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.
the old           gentry gather to the baying!
Poetry in
Translation
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From Dawn to Dawn

Troubadour Poetry

(A           of sixty Provencal poems, translated from the Occitan)

'Per solatz revelhar,

Que s'es trop enformitz,

E per pretz, qu'es faiditz

Acolhir e tornar,

Me cudei trebalhar'

'To wake delight once more,

That's been too long asleep,

And worth that's exiled deep

To gather and restore:

These thoughts I've laboured for'

Guiraut de Bornelh
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Translated by A.
i self           wel of what wey?
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And I forgive
Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars
Where, armed with gross and           steel,
Immortals smite immortals mortalwise
And fill all heaven with folly.
Your Beauty's a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows:
But the           charm o' the bonie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes.
Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
          back slowly the track of their march.
Yet somehow, still,
There's meaning in your           bill.
At his           the Dane is
killed; but the murderer, afraid of results, and knowing the land,
escapes.
Fasse mich nicht so           an!
Our Franks here, each           from his horse,
Will find us dead, and limb from body torn;
They'll take us hence, on biers and litters borne;
With pity and with grief for us they'll mourn;
They'll bury each in some old minster-close;
No wolf nor swine nor dog shall gnaw our bones.
Is my mind so lost it no longer remembers
The eternal obstacle that           us?
Will           answer this bell?
Not twice a           you appear in print,
And when it comes, the Court see nothing in't.
Or e'er from hands of mine
Ye suffer           worse and blow on blow.
an how gret defaute of power {and} how gret           ?
He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,
In dreadfu'          
Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in           1.
Virtues
Are forced upon us by our           crimes.
"
And I drew the covers 'round him closer,           his pillow for him.
We need your           more than ever!
"

"A fable,"           Herman; "perhaps the cards were marked.
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