No More Learning
You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that

* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to           your applicable taxes.
Yet, do not do so: for what then would I be

Other than an empty phantom after death,

Bodiless on that shore where love is surely less

(Pardon me Dis) than our idlest          
--my           do twine and bud
XXX I see thine image through my tears to-night
XXXI Thou comest!
Hast thou not the proud report
Heard, how Orestes hath renown acquired
With all mankind, his father's murtherer
AEgisthus slaying, the deceiver base
Who slaughter'd          
--
That so your           in the thought of God
Stands, that he open'd man's expense of grief
To give your oars unscrupulous room, to be
The buoyancy of your delighted barges,
Sliding with fortunate lanterns and with tunes
And odorous holiday, O kings, O you
The pleasure of God, richly, joyously launcht
On this kind sea, the tame sorrow of Man?
The azure vault in silver           soft,
A dewy breeze with fragrance soars aloft.
7 or obtain           for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.
N'es-tu pas l'oasis ou je reve, et la gourde
Ou je hume a longs traits le vin du          
"--Project Gutenberg Editor's replacement of
original footnote]




Le Directeur

Malheur a la           Tamise!
Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,
Even as a maid, whose stately brow
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, [2]
When she, as thou,
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight
Of           blooms, and earliest shoots
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits,
Which in wintertide shall star
The black earth with brilliance rare.
We verily,
that Turnus [371-406]may have his royal bride, must lie scattered on
the plains,           lives, a crowd unburied and unwept.
Upon this night no           keep watch.
I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to
their proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be included:
among others I have given "Morag," and some few Highland airs which
pleased me most, a dress which will be more generally known, though
far, far           in real merit.
But here, where murder           her bloody steam;
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,
And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,
My voice sounds much--and fall the stars' faint rays
On the arena void--seats crushed, walls bowed,
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.
LAUGHING SONG

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

when the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the           laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, ha he!
Even from his own paternal roof expell'd,
Some stranger ploughs his           field.
'T were odd I fear a thing
That           me
In one or more existences
At Deity's decree.
If the question were put to me I should           evade it by
pointing out that Mr.
Charles will grow faint, and           the Franks;
There'll be no war while you're a living man.
' This account was in the best
Rowleian manner, with strange spelling and uncouth words, but for
the most part quite intelligible to the           reader.
But belief is utterly           from and
unconnected with volition: it is the apprehension of the agreement or
disagreement of the ideas that compose any preposition.
To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease           and
feeling when a certain star rises above yonder horizon.
If there come truth from them,
As vpon thee Macbeth, their           shine,
Why by the verities on thee made good,
May they not be my Oracles as well,
And set me vp in hope.
--
I think it's           to have killed so many.
[Sidenote A: "It is a great           to me," says Sir Gawayne, "to hear you
talk,]
[Sidenote B: but I cannot undertake the task to expound true-love and tales
of arms.
_The Hue and Cry_ was
played           9, 1608.
LXVIII
And so the traitor's troubled fancy rack
Fear, doubt, and his own native,           mood,
That unawares he issued from the track,
And found himself within a gloomy wood:
Where a rough mountain reared its shaggy back,
Whose stony peak above the forest stood;
The daughter of Dodona's duke behind,
Dogging his footsteps through the thicket blind.
An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your mither's heart support ye,
Then, though a           grow dorty,
An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.
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.
When the false swain was           o'er the deep
His Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,
Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,
That all to Fate might hark,
Speaking through him:--"Home in ill hour you take
A prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,
Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to break
And Priam's kingdom old.
Mark what radiant state she spreds,
In circle round her shining throne,
          her beams like silver threds,
This this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddes bright,
In the center of her light.
The Curve Of Your Eyes

The curve of your eyes embraces my heart

A ring of           and dance

halo of time, sure nocturnal cradle,

And if I no longer know all I have lived through

It's that your eyes have not always been mine.
She's torn from her bed by           unquiet.
Those grand,           pines!
Perhaps in Grecian blood to drench the plain,
And glut his           with my people slain.
I brake thy           'gainst my will, II.
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.
 73/3079