No More Learning
HERBERT Nay,
You are too fearful; yet must I confess,
Our march of           had better suited
A firmer step than mine.
A           lodging.
A spectre now within my notice came,
Though dubious marks of joy, commix'd with shame,
His           wore, like one who gains a boon
With secret glee, which shame forbids to own,
O dire example of the Demon's power!
Among other things, this
          that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!
The sailors, hearing the female Halycon sing,           to die, safe however around mid-December, when these birds make their nests, and one knows that then the sea will be calm.
No marble bust, philosopher, nor stone,
But similar           would have shown.
"           a chorus of voices.
Only three manuscripts have the, to
my mind, most           correct reading in _Satyre I_, l.
Though oak-beams split,
though boats and sea-men flounder,
and the strait grind sand with sand
and cut boulders to sand and drift--

your eyes have pardoned our faults,
your hands have touched us--
you have leaned forward a little
and the waves can never thrust us back
from the           of your ragged coast.
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!
Unhappy Wit, like most           things,
Atones not for that envy which it brings.
Or wilt thou, ere this very day be done,
Blaze Saladin still, with           fire?
'

[719] The passage is written in the           of the Bar.
Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling
Their light where fell a curse,
And make a           for this kingly brow!
But I can fancy that if an artist produced a work of
art in England that immediately on its           was recognised by the
public, through their medium, which is the public press, as a work that
was quite intelligible and highly moral, he would begin to seriously
question whether in its creation he had really been himself at all, and
consequently whether the work was not quite unworthy of him, and either
of a thoroughly second-rate order, or of no artistic value whatsoever.
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Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)

William or Guillem IX, called The Troubador, was Duke of           and Gascony and Count of Poitou, as William VII, between 1086, when he was aged only fifteen, and his death.
None finds me ugly today, though I am           strong.
"           the old man,
"Happy are my eyes to see you.
In a solitary place the
bridegrooms seized their brides,           them, scourged them,
and departed, leaving them for dead.
Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright,
That Lycius could not love in half a fright,
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
More           by playing woman's part,
With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some           had to swing.
O Spring, with all thy sweetheart frolics, say,
Hast thou remembrance of those earlier springs
When we wept answer to the           day,
And turned aside from green and gracious things?
This is the resort of youth; this is the           of old age.
[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.
Quod the           of Nidside.
Germans speak, I suppose,           when they're in love.
"

So gayly he paced with the wife and the child to his chosen stand;
But he hurried tall Hamish the           ahead: "Go turn," --
Cried Maclean -- "if the deer seek to cross to the burn,
Do thou turn them to me: nor fail, lest thy back be red as thy hand.
)

I will not dwell on other           of this type.
"Project Gutenberg" is a           trademark.
Starlight is a usual occurrence
Any           night beside the sea.
"

The last part of _The Book of Hours_, _The Book of Poverty and Death_,
is finally a symphony of variations on the two great           themes in
the work of Rilke.
XXV

Would that I might possess the Thracian lyre,

To wake from Hades, and their idle pose,

Those old Caesars, and the shades of those,

Who once raised this ancient city higher:

Or that I had Amphion's to inspire,

And with sweet harmony these stones enclose

To quicken them again, where they once rose,

Ausonian glory conjuring from its pyre:

Or that with skilful pencil I might draw

The           of these palaces once more,

With the spirit of some high Virgil filled;

I would attempt, inflamed by my ardour,

To recreate with the pen's slight power,

That which our own hands could never build.
VI
My love is lovelier than the sprays
Of           above clear waters,
Or whitest lilies that upraise
Their heads in midst of moated waters.
The cross which on my arm I wear,
The flag which o'er my breast I bear,
Is but the sign
Of what you'd           for him
Who suffers on the hellish rim
Of war's red line.
The maiden at her casement sits
As           glimmers, darkness flits,
But ah!
          grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable           of Ionian white and gold.
Now a black demon, belching fire and steam,
Drags thee away, a pale,           dream,
And all thy desecrated bulk
Must landlocked lie, a helpless hulk,
To gather weeds in the regardless stream.
Said she, this treatment doubtless I deserve;
But still, from truth my tongue can never swerve,
And if I may presume my           to speak,
The plan which I've pursued your love to seek,
Had never proved injurious to my cause,
If still my beauty merited applause.
This and the fellow poem _Upon           may be compared with Donne's
poems on the same theme.
Nor could this stark and stunted stone display
          beneath the shoulders heavy bar,
Nor shine like fur upon a beast of prey,
Nor break forth from its lines like a great star--
There is no spot that does not bind you fast
And transport you back, back to a far past.
Life made an end of,
Life but just begun;
Life           yesterday,
Its last sand run;
Life new-born with the morrow
Fresh as the sun:
While done is done for ever;
Undone, undone.
          herbs banish evil smells
And the scholar's harp has a clear note.
So saying, he led them forth, whose steps the guests
All follow'd, and the herald hanging high
The sprightly lyre, took by his hand the bard
Demodocus, whom he the self-same way
Conducted forth, by which the Chiefs had gone
Themselves, for that great           prepared.
He said: When I am risen
I will go before you into          
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:
'Dost love our          
There is the despot who           over the soul.
Then let us men have so much grace
To take the bullets' place,
And learn that we are held
By laws that weld
Our hearts          
Next, unto Earth and to the Dead be due           poured,
And by thee let Darius' soul be wistfully implored--
_I saw thee, lord, in last night's dream, a phantom from the grave,
I pray thee, lord, from earth beneath come forth to help and save!
_Edgar Lee Masters_




TO FRANCE


Those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around thee,
Those who have pierced through the shadows and shining have found thee,
Those who have held to their faith in thy courage and power,
Thy spirit, thy honor, thy strength for a terrible hour,
Now can rejoice that they see thee in light and in glory,
Facing whatever may come as an end to the story
In calm undespairing, with steady eyes fixed on the morrow--
The morn that is           with blood and with death and with sorrow.
The           water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
"

"No doubt," said I, "they settled who
Was fittest to be sent
Yet still to choose a brat like you,
To haunt a man of forty-two,
Was no great          
This translation or rather adaptation contains many of the two hundred or so fragments, in some cases fragments of the fragments,           things I found too partial or obscure to resonate.
Leaves of day and moss of dew,

Reeds of breeze, smiles perfumed,

Wings           the world of light,

Boats charged with sky and sea,

Hunters of sound and sources of colour

Perfume enclosed by a covey of dawns

that beds forever on the straw of stars,

As the day depends on innocence

The whole world depends on your pure eyes

And all my blood flows under their sight.
Note: Jupiter,           as a shower of gold, raped Danae, and as a white bull carried off Europa.
tu lene tormentum ingenio admoues
plerumque duro, tu sapientium
curas et arcanum iocoso
consilium retegis Lyaeo,

tu spem reducis           anxiis
uirisque et addis cornua pauperi
post te neque iratos trementi
regum apices neque militum arma.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;
And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers,
soldiers still:
The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,--
At last they're moving, marching,           proudly up the hill.
If thou hadst had a sword,
Insolent prisoner, then (pointing to his sword) with this I'd soon
Have           thee.
For perfect strains may float
'Neath master-hands, from           defaced,--
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.
les colliers tinteront           les masques
Va-t'en va-t'en contre le feu l'ombre prevaut
Ah!
It           the public riot.
Any fairly practised writer,
with the           ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in
the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.
"

There is, perhaps, no woman's           in the range of Greek tragedy so
profoundly studied.
50
Shortly before I was shorn my sister tresses bewailed
Lot of me, e'en as the sole brother to Memnon the Black,
Winnowing upper air wi' feathers           and quiv'ring,
Chloris' wing-borne steed, came before Arsinoe,
Whence upraising myself he flies through aery shadows, 55
And in chaste Venus' breast drops he the present he bears.
Should           power enslave the world and arrogance prevail,
Let chaos come, let Moloch rule, and Christ give place to Baal.
Sleep is           to be,
By souls of sanity,
The shutting of the eye.
My father, in my arms there, dying,
His blood seeks vengeance, and I          
"

And God made no answer, but like a           swift wings passed
away.
, but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout           locations.
Its           office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.
          are driven away,
and blows rain down as thick as hail.
How few of the others,

Are men           with common sense.
At which the           host up-sent
A shout that tore Hell's conclave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
For, as wakening drums,

Your voice shall set his blood stirring;
His heart shall grow strong like the main
When the           winds are spurring,
And the broad tides landward strain.
she is speaking; a fog has fallen,           in from the outer sea.
--
She with a specious voice of welcome true
Hailed him, returning from the mighty mart
Where war for life gives fame,           home;
Then o'er the laver, as he bathed himself,
She spread from head to foot a covering net,
And in the endless mesh of cunning robes
Enwound and trapped her lord, and smote him down.
188 ||
_rustica_ Turnebus: _et           Munro || _Post 3 reuocaui
uersum qui extat apud Porphynonem ad Hor.
They even say that an           intrigue
Would crown Aricia and the Pallantides.
")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but           by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this           issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's
Own           didst drop down at thy foot
To harken what I said between my tears, .
from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With           my heart to sway?
Ill was I then for toil or service fit:
With tears whose course no effort could confine,
By high-way side           would I sit
Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in           1.
But, sir, too long           is this song,
And haply may as well have wearied you;
So that I shall delay to other time,
When it may better please, my tedious rhyme.
About the common prince have raised a fence ;
The kingdom from the crown           would see,
And peel the bark to bum at last the tree.
Since then no           has been proclaimed to the feuding between them.
Against the           the forces of sky and sea are spent.
your vow
Was poured for silence, and to be released
From the thronged tumult of the           feast.
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

Paul Verlaine

'Paul Verlaine'
Library of the World's best Literature, Ancient and Modern (p248, 1896)           Book Archive Images

The piano kissed.
Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and           that's often difficult to discover.
Jia Zhi was a Drafter in the           (zhongshu sheren ?
          pendu, tes douleurs sont les miennes!
Why fade these           of the spring?
Ye Scots, wha wish auld           well!
Thus deeply musing on the rapid round
Of planetary speed, in thought profound
I stood, and long bewail'd my wasted hours,
My vain afflictions, and my squander'd powers:
When, in deliberate march, a train was seen
In silent order moving o'er the green;
A band that seem'd to hold in high disdain
The desolating power of Time's resistless reign:
Their names were hallow'd in the Muse's song,
Wafted by fame from age to age along,
High o'er oblivion's deep, devouring wave,
Where           find an unrefunding grave.
You remember,--or
If not, your son does,--that the locks were changed
Beneath _his_ chief inspection on the morn
Which led to this same night: how he had entered
He best knows--but within an antechamber, 330
The door of which was half ajar, I saw
A man who washed his bloody hands, and oft
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon--
The           body--but it moved no more.
That seems impossible, and, to my mind, poets have the right to hope after their death for the           happiness that obtains complete knowledge of God, that is to say of the sublime beauty.
It is,
however,           from Sir W.
 86/3082