No More Learning
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.
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.
Never did sun more
steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
"
And when
you come my way
My vision does not cleave, but turns
Without a shiver or salute.
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.
(See other englisht copies of these '15 Tokens'
to St.
Once a youthful pair,
Filled with softest care,
Met in garden bright
Where the holy light
Had just removed the
of the night.
We're dead: the souls let no man harry,
But pray that God
us all.
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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.
The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to
lands.
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?
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.
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.
Homesick for
honey,
Ah!
A writer will indeed take what is most
creative out of himself, not from observation, but experience, yet he
must master a definite language, a definite
of incident and
scene.
A
rumbling there,
The town's at our feet.
* * * * *
"My friends with rude
words
They scoff and bid me fly to thee!
_
TO STEFANO COLONNA,
HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE
ORSINI.
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Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her
lot.
We paused before a house that seemed
A
of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
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.
He did so and won a
success.
s face, 80 and the
girls combed their own hair.
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.
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.
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?
