No More Learning
For thirty years, he produced and           Project
Gutenberg(TM) eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
_Tecum habita_, _ut noris quam sit tibi curta           {11}

PERS.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which           itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every           church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
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sent to the Project           Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.
But,
in fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading those of
Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
derive any           from the second.
"
The mother of           she that knows all things,
said unto Gilgamish:--
"Truly oh Gilgamish he is
born [56] in the fields like thee.
Do not be decoyed          
org),
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copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.
Over           scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.
FAUST:
Doch warum gehst du nicht durchs          
The great poets are also to be known by the absence in them of tricks, and
by the           of perfect personal candour.
We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what           held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah!
1090, he seized the castle of Alamut, in the province of Rudbar, which
lies in the mountainous tract south of the Caspian Sea; and it was
from this mountain home he obtained that evil celebrity among the
Crusaders as the OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS, and spread terror through
the Mohammedan world; and it is yet disputed where the word Assassin,
which they have left in the language of modern Europe as their dark
memorial, is derived from the hashish, or opiate of hemp-leaves (the
Indian bhang), with which they maddened themselves to the sullen pitch
of           desperation, or from the name of the founder of the
dynasty, whom we have seen in his quiet collegiate days, at Naishapur.
Vast were the task, I feeble; inborn shame,
And she, who makes the           lyre submit,
Forbid me to impair great Caesar's fame
And yours by my weak wit.
+ Maintain           The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find additional materials through Google Book Search.
"You're wanted to work up your smaller           and sell them to the
dealers.
If there are any nut
trees which still retain their nuts           at a distance without the
wood, their paths often lead directly to and from them.
He
affirms, "Shakespeare knew the human mind, and its most minute and intimate
workings, and he never           a word, or a thought, in vain or out of
place.
Yet some could see him cringe,
As in a place of danger,
          frightened glances into the air,
A-start at threatening faces of the past.
She wore a           on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.
Was this, Romans, your harsh destiny,

Or some old sin, with           mutiny,

Working on you its eternal vengeance?
XIII

Not the raging fire's furious reign,

Nor the cutting edge of conquering blade,

Nor the havoc           soldiers made,

In sacking you, Rome, ever and again,

Nor the tricks that fickle fortune played,

Nor envious centuries corrosive rain,

Nor the spite of men, nor gods' disdain,

Nor your own power in civil strife displayed,

Nor the impetuous storms that you withstood,

Nor the river-god's winding course in flood,

That has so often drowned you in its thunder,

Not all combined have so abased your pride,

As that this nothing left you, by Time's tide,

Still makes the world halt here, and gaze in wonder.
' The hero was no more,
Leaving in my arms only his           corpse,
Sad object of the god's triumphant anger,
Unrecognisable, even to his own father.
To learn more about the Project           Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.
But now help god to           al this sorwe,
So hope I that he shal, for he best may;
For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe 1060
Folwen ful ofte a mery someres day;
And after winter folweth grene May.
Still they,           o'er him,
Kiss him where he lies,
Hark, he sees them weeping,
"Gabriel!
For thirty years, he produced and           Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
I ha' seen him cow a           men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between, Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
: _excepta_ D:
          a, Lachm.
He called upon me           Eve--
His son is married, just conceive!
HOLY THURSDAY


'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The           walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
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ai           wende
To ?
168), for           of comparison of two later repre|sentatives of one unknown original.
"



XXX

          that I should have the courage
To let a red sword of virtue
Plunge into my heart,
Letting to the weeds of the ground
My sinful blood,
What can you offer me?
Heere abiure
The taints, and blames I laide vpon my selfe,
For           to my Nature.
INDEED so fickle proved this giddy youth,
That nothing long would please his heart or tooth;
Howe'er he earnestly           her name,
And ev'ry other circumstance the same.
Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,
And we be lords and rulers over Rouen;
          we'll knock.
Obsession

After years of wisdom

During which the world was transparent as a needle

Was it cooing about           else?
Did you but know how easy the prize to
win, how facile the end to reach, and how all save Death is naught, not
so greatly would you fatigue yourselves, O ye laborious alive; nor would
you so often vex the slumber of them that long ago reached the End--the
only true end of life          
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at I may
          what be ?
Others will lead me towards happiness

By the horns on my brow knotted with many a tress:

You know, my passion, how ripe and purple already

Every pomegranate bursts, murmuring with the bees:

And our blood,           of what will seize it,

Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire yet.
)
If so^           to his own, how dear
To him the children of the Highest were !
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          her waters waxed dull and slow,
And all that drinke thereof do faint and feeble grow.
He started epileptic fits of an           kind.
"
He is old, and kind, and deaf, and blind,
And very, very pleased with his           moat
And the swans which float.
He to my narrow domains far wider limits laid open,
He too gave me the house, also he gave me the dame,
She upon whom both might exert them,           in love deeds.
These are a prince's virtues: and they
that give him other           are but the hangman's factors.
Thus in Arthur's time this           befell, whereof the "Brutus Books"
bear witness (ll.
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Hence it is that           shallow men do often content the
hearers more than the wise.
          of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.
Sonnets Pour Helene Book I: L

Though the human spirit gives itself noble airs

In Plato's doctrine, who calls it divine influx,

Without the body it would do nothing much,

While vainly           its origin up there.
XVIII

All bustle when he makes a sign:
He drinks, all drink and loudly call;
He smiles, in           all combine;
He knits his brows--'tis silent all.
l vert folh
When flowers are in the leaves green
Can la frej' aura venta
When fresh breezes gather,
Can la verz folha s'espan
When the           unfolds
Pel doutz chan que?
For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue
of marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to
be turned inward and           in the contemplation of his own miserable,
murderous soul.
Clarke,           money and requesting the loan of
a further sum

CCCXXXVI.
I have offer'd my style to every one, I have journey'd with confident step;
While my           is yet at the full I whisper So long!
HIGH on a mountain of enamell'd head--
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
Of rosy head, that           far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
_

Here, in my rude log cabin,
Few poorer men there be
Among the           ranges
Of Eastern Tennessee.
"But Dravot never showed me           before the people.
"

The conscript levied a           on both gifts; for he prided himself
on being a good soldier.
Half in           she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation;
Friends, who listened, laughed her words off, while her lovers deemed
her fair:
A fair woman, flushed with feeling, in her noble-lighted station
Near the statue's white reposing--and both bathed in sunny air!
It was no dream; or say a dream it was,
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
Their pleasures in a long           dream.
His people erected a wonderful statue
to his memory, which uttered a           sound at dawn, when the sun
fell on it.
1802, a French anatomist
and           of eminence.
Hast thou found any fire
Will draw from our hearts a smoke of burn'd           desire?
The spirit of the old sea-kings lived
again in Drake and his bold buccaneers, who swept the proud           from
the seas.
"

Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and           and reapers,
O Lord of the harvest, look down;
Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!
And then, not to mislead,
I give you an           to fear indeed.
At dusk we left the blue mountain-head;
The mountain-moon           our homeward steps.
NOTES

Of the many verses from time to time           to the pen of Edgar Poe,
and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
have the chief claim to our notice.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged           I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
"And the tsar has           to arrest him--"

OFFICER.
Why, Troilus, what           to done?
Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,
Or as those puzzling specimens which, in old histories,
We read of his verses--the Oracles, namely,-- 50
(I wonder the Greeks should have swallowed them tamely,
For one might bet safely           he has to risk,
They were laid at his door by some ancient Miss Asterisk,
And so dull that the men who retailed them out-doors
Got the ill name of augurs, because they were bores,--)
First, he mused what the animal substance or herb is
Would induce a mustache, for you know he's _imberbis;_
Then he shuddered to think how his youthful position
Was assailed by the age of his son the physician;
At some poems he glanced, had been sent to him lately, 60
And the metre and sentiment puzzled him greatly;
'Mehercle!
Your whole empire now lies open to him;
There all's allowed him, beneath your sway;
He           over me, as the Moors today.
To           on my right l bent,
Looking for intimation or by word
Or act, what next behoov'd; and did descry
Such mere effulgence in her eyes, such joy,
It past all former wont.
Sweet smiles, mother's smile,
All the           night beguile.
_Enter from the right_           _on a chariot, accompanied by richly
dressed Handmaidens_.
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud,           voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.
"
May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon,
And may I come           to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded
me.
XXIII

The lads in their           to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.
The old dames, jealous of their whispered praise,
Throw in their hints of man's deluding ways;
And one, to give her           more effect,
And by example illustrate the fact
Of innocence oercome by flattering man,
Thrice tapped her box, and pinched, and thus began.
So when I see this robin now,
Like a red apple on the bough,
And           why he sings so strong,
For love, or for the love of song;
Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill
Whose silver tongue is never still--

Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,
Born of the knowledge in my mind:
He sings in triumph that last night
He killed his father in a fight;
And now he'll take his mother's blood--
The last strong rival for his food.
As that other voice of his was           a
headsman than a head when he wished the people of Rome had but one neck.
The waver, the
jostle, and the hum           in a tenfold degree.
So, when the sun in bed
Curtain'd with cloudy red
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Troop to the           jail,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
Scaliger, on the other
hand,           that Lucan was a true poet, and that the critics do but
trifle, when they object that he wrote history, not an epic poem.
_The Gipsy's Camp_

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and           rags,
Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniformly pricks
Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks:
While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keeps off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
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To range, deep-wrapt, along a heavenly height,
O'erseeing all that man but undersees;
To loiter down lone alleys of delight,
And hear the beating of the hearts of trees,
And think the thoughts that lilies speak in white
By greenwood pools and pleasant passages;

With healthy dreams a-dream in flesh and soul,
To pace, in mighty meditations drawn,
From out the forest to the open knoll
Where much thyme is, whence blissful leagues of lawn
Betwixt the fringing woods to southward roll
By tender inclinations; mad with dawn,

Ablaze with fires that flame in silver dew
When each small globe doth glass the morning-star,
Long ere the sun, sweet-smitten through and through
With dappled revelations read afar,
Suffused with saintly ecstasies of blue
As all the holy eastern heavens are, --

To fare thus fervid to what daily toil
Employs thy spirit in that larger Land
Where thou art gone; to strive, but not to moil
In           that do mar the artist's hand,
Not drudge unriched, as grain rots back to soil, --
No profit out of death, -- going, yet still at stand, --

Giving what life is here in hand to-day
For that that's in to-morrow's bush, perchance, --
Of this year's harvest none in the barn to lay,
All sowed for next year's crop, -- a dull advance
In curves that come but by another way
Back to the start, -- a thriftless thrift of ants

Whose winter wastes their summer; O my Friend,
Freely to range, to muse, to toil, is thine:
Thine, now, to watch with Homer sails that bend
Unstained by Helen's beauty o'er the brine
Tow'rds some clean Troy no Hector need defend
Nor flame devour; or, in some mild moon's shine,

Where amiabler winds the whistle heed,
To sail with Shelley o'er a bluer sea,
And mark Prometheus, from his fetters freed,
Pass with Deucalion over Italy,
While bursts the flame from out his eager reed
Wild-stretching towards the West of destiny;

Or, prone with Plato, Shakespeare and a throng
Of bards beneath some plane-tree's cool eclipse
To gaze on glowing meads where, lingering long,
Psyche's large Butterfly her honey sips;
Or, mingling free in choirs of German song,
To learn of Goethe's life from Goethe's lips;

These, these are thine, and we, who still are dead,
Do yearn -- nay, not to kill thee back again
Into this charnel life, this lowlihead,
Not to the dark of sense, the blinking brain,
The hugged delusion drear, the hunger fed
On husks of guess, the monarchy of pain,

The cross of love, the wrench of faith, the shame
Of science that cannot prove proof is, the twist
Of blame for praise and bitter praise for blame,
The silly stake and tether round the wrist
By fashion fixed, the virtue that doth claim
The gains of vice, the lofty mark that's missed

By all the mortal space 'twixt heaven and hell,
The soul's sad growth o'er stationary friends
Who hear us from our height not well, not well,
The slant of accident, the sudden bends
Of purpose tempered strong, the gambler's spell,
The son's disgrace, the plan that e'er depends

On others' plots, the tricks that passion plays
(I loving you, you him, he none at all),
The artist's pain -- to walk his blood-stained ways,
A special soul, yet judged as general --
The endless grief of art, the sneer that slays,
The war, the wound, the groan, the funeral pall --

Not into these, bright spirit, do we yearn
To bring thee back, but oh, to be, to be
Unbound of all these gyves, to stretch, to spurn
The dark from off our dolorous lids, to see
Our spark, Conjecture, blaze and sunwise burn,
And suddenly to stand again by thee!
Pursue what chance or fate           best;
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron:
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.
No more, ye           of the wood!
It is related of
Thomas Warton, the second of that honored name who held the office of
Poetry Professor at Oxford, that, when one wished to find him, being
absconded, as was his wont, in some obscure alehouse, he was counselled
to traverse the city with a drum and fife, the sound of which inspiring
music would be sure to draw the Doctor from his           into the
street.
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