The Three Taverns: A Book of Poems

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Macmillan, 1920 - 120 страница

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Страница 14 - And from thence, when the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum, and the Three Taverns; whom when Paul saw, he thanked God, and took courage.
Страница 53 - Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ, There's an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy; Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy.
Страница 6 - So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others, And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn ; And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn. For the children of the dark are more to name than are wretched, Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed : There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow, And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed...
Страница 27 - ALL you that are enamored of my name And least intent on what most I require, Beware; for my design and your desire, Deplorably, are not as yet the same. Beware, I say, the failure and the shame Of losing that for which you now aspire So blindly, and of hazarding entire The gift that I was bringing when I came. Give as I will, I cannot give you sight Whereby to see that with you there are some To lead you, and be led. But they are dumb Before the wrangling and the shrill delight Of your deliverance...
Страница 82 - FIRELIGHT Ten years together without yet a cloud, They seek each other's eyes at intervals Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls For love's obliteration of the crowd. Serenely and perennially endowed And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls No snake, no sword; and over them there falls The blessing of what neither says aloud. Wiser for silence, they were not so glad Were she to read the graven tale of lines On the wan face of one somewhere alone; Nor were they more content could he have...
Страница 12 - And in the mill there was a warm And mealy fragrance of the past. What else there was would only seem To say again what he had meant; And what was hanging from a beam Would not have heeded where she went. And if she thought it followed her, She may have reasoned in the dark That one way of the few there were Would hide her and would leave no mark: Black water, smooth above the weir Like starry velvet in the night, Though ruffled once, would soon appear The same as ever to the sight.
Страница 13 - THE DARK HILLS Dark hills at evening in the west, Where sunset hovers like a sound Of golden horns that sang to rest Old bones of warriors under ground, Far now from all the bannered ways Where flash the legions of the sun, You fade — as if the last of days Were fading, and all wars were done.
Страница 55 - My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down Without a scratch, was once inhabited By trees that injured him — an evil trash That made a cage, and held him while he bled. "Gone fifty years, I see them as they were Before they fell. They were a crooked lot To spoil my sunset, and I saw ii6"~time In fifty years for crooked things to rot.
Страница 85 - Poetry transcends itself in the playfulness of the toast. Robinson has gone to his place in American literature and left his human place among us vacant. We mourn, but with the qualification that, after all, his life was a revel in the felicities of language. And not just to no purpose. None has deplored The inscrutable profusion of the Lord Who shaped as one of us a thing so sad and at the same time so happy in achievement. Not for me to search his sadness to its source. He knew how to forbid encroachment....
Страница 10 - And he would look at me and live, As others might have looked and died. As if at last he knew again That he had always known, his eyes Were like to those of one who gazed On those of One who never dies. For such a moment he revealed What life has in it to be lost; And I could ask if what I saw, Before me there, was man or ghost. He may have died so many times That all there was of him to see Was pride, that kept itself alive As too rebellious to be free; He may have told, when more than once Humility...

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