Boast Eth Some Last Word example essay topic

Sestina: Altaforte Loquitur: En Bertrand de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up of strife. Ecco vi! Judge ye!

Have I dug him up again The scene in at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard", the device of Richard (Cur de Lion). I Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace. You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!

I have no life save when the swords clash. But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing. II In hot summer have I great rejoicing When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash. Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! And the shrill neighs of destrier's in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!

Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson! IV And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing. V The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such slut I go rejoicing; Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI Papiols, Papiols, to the music! There's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash. May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!" VII And let the music of the swords make them crimson! Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!" The Seafarer (From the early Anglo-Saxon text) May I for my own self song's truth reckon, Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days Hardship endured oft.

Bitter breast-cares have I abide, Known on my keel many a care's hold, And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent Narrow night watch nigh the ship's head While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted, My feet were by frost benumbed. Chill its chains are; chafing sighs Hew my heart round and hunger begot Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not That he on dry land loveliest liveth, List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea, Weathered the winter, wretched outcast Deprived of my kinsmen; Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-sur flew, There I heard naught save the harsh sea And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries, Did for my games the gannet's clamour, Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter, The mews's in ging all my mead-drink. Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed With spray on his pinion. Not any protector May make merry man faring needy.

This he little believes, who aye in winsome life Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business, Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft Must bide above brine. Near eth nightshade, snowe th from north, Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then Corn of the coldest. Nath less there knock eth now The heart's thought that I on high streams The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone. Moan eth alway my mind's lust That I fare forth, that I afar hence Seek out a foreign fastness. For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst, Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed; Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare Whatever his lord will. He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight Nor any whit else save the wave's slash, Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.

Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries, Fields to fairness, land fares brisker, All this admonish eth man eager of mood, The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks On flood-ways to be far departing. Cuckoo call eth with gloomy crying, He singe th summer ward, bode th sorrow, The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not - He the prosperous man - what some perform Where wandering them widest draw eth. So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock, My mood 'mid the mere-flood, Over the whale's acre, would wander wide.

On earth's shelter cometh oft to me, Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer, Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly, O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow My lord deems to me this dead life On loan and on land, I believe not That any earth-weal eternal stand eth Save there be somewhat calamitous That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain. Disease or oldness or sword-hate Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body. And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after - Laud of the living, boast eth some last word, That he will work ere he pass onward, Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice, Daring ado, ... So that all men shall honour him after And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English, Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast, Delight mid the doughty. Days little durable, And all arrogance of earthen riches, There come now no kings nor Cars Nor gold-giving lords like those gone. Howe " er in mirth most magnified, Who " er lived in life most lordliest, Drear all this excellence, delights un durable!

Wane th the watch, but the world hold eth. Tomb hide th trouble. The blade is layed low. Earthly glory age th and sear eth. No man at all going the earth's gait, But age fares against him, his face pale th, Grey-haired he groan eth, knows gone companions, Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven, Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life cease th, Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry, Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart, And though he strew the grave with gold, His born brothers, their buried bodies Be an unlikely treasure hoard. from Ripostes (1912) The Garden En robe de parade. Sama in.

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion. from Lustra (1913-1915) Ancient Music Winter is icu men in, Laude sing Goddamm, Raine th drop and stain eth slop, And how the wind doth damm!

Sing: Goddamm. Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham. Damm you; Sing: Goddamm. Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm, So 'gainst the winter's balm. Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm, Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM. from Lustra (1913-1915) Further Instructions Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions.

Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future. You are very idle, my songs, I fear you will come to a bad end. You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops, You do next to nothing at all. You do not even express our inner nobility's, You will come to a very bad end. And I I have gone half-cracked. I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me, Insolent little beasts!

Shameless! Devoid of clothing! But you, newest song of the lot, You are not old enough to have done much mischief. I will get you a green coat out of China With dragons worked upon it. I will get you the scarlet silk trousers From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella; Lest they say we are lacking in taste, Or that there is no caste in this family. from Lustra (1913-1915) The Lake Isle O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves, Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop, With the little bright boxes piled up neatly upon the shelves And the loose fragment cavendish and the shag, And the bright Virginia loose under the bright glass cases, And a pair of scales not too greasy, And the votailles dropping in for a word or two in passing, For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit. O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves, Lend me a little tobacco-shop, or install me in any profession Save this damn'd profession of writing, where one needs one's brains all the time. from Lustra (1913-1915) Envoi Go, dumb-born book, Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes: Hadst thou but song As thou hast subjects known, Then were there cause in thee that should condone Even my faults that heavy upon me lie And build her glories their longevity.

Tell her that sheds Such treasure in the air, Re cking naught else but that her graces give Life to the moment, I would bid them live As roses might, in magic amber laid, Red overwrought with orange and all made One substance and one colour Braving time. Tell her that goes With song upon her lips But sings not out the song, nor knows The maker of it, some other mouth, May be as fair as hers, Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers, When our two dusts with Waller's shall be laid, Siftings on siftings in oblivion, Till change hath broken down All things save Beauty alone. 1920 Hugh Selwyn Mauberly (Part I) "Voc at aest us in umbra m" Nemesianus Es. IV.E.P. Ode pour l'lection de son sepulchre For three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry; to maintain "the sublime" In the old sense. Wrong from the start - No, hardly, but, seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date; Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn; Capaneus; trout for factitious bait: "Id men gar toi path, os eni Troie Caught in the unstopped ear; Giving the rocks small lee-way The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year. His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles; Observed the elegance of Circe's hair Rather than the mottoes on sun-dials.

Unaffected by "the march of events", He passed from men's memory in l'an trentiesme De son age; the case presents No adjunct to the Muses' diadem. II. The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace; Not, not certainly, the obscure reveries Of the inward gaze; Better mendacities Than the classics in paraphrase! The "age demanded" chiefly a mould in plaster, Made with no loss of time, A prose kine ma, not, not assuredly, alabaster Or the "sculpture" of rhyme.. The tea-rose, tea-gown, etc. Supplants the mousseline of Cos, The pianola "replaces" Sappho's barbi tos.

Christ follows Dionysus, Phallic and ambrosial Made way for maceration's; Caliban casts out Ariel. All things are a flowing, Sage Heraclitus says; But a tawdry cheapness Shall reign throughout our days. Even the Christian beauty Defects - after Samothrace; We see to kal on Decreed in the market place. Faun's flesh is not to us, Nor the saint's vision. We have the press for wafer; Franchise for circumcision. All men, in law, are equals.

Free of Pisistratus, We choose a knave or an eunuch To rule over us. A bright Apollo, tin andra, tin ero a, tina then, What god, man, or hero Shall I place a tin wreath upon IV. These fought, in any case, and some believing, pro domo, in any case... Some quick to arm, some for adventure, some from fear of weakness, some from fear of censure, some for love of slaughter, in imagination, learning later... some in fear, learning love of slaughter; Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor.".. walked eye-deep in hell believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving came home, home to a lie, home to many deceits, home to old lies and new infamy; usury age-old and age-thick and liars in public places. Daring as never before, wastage as never before. Young blood and high blood, Fair cheeks, and fine bodies; fortitude as never before frankness as never before, disillusions as never told in the old days, hysteria's, trench confessions, laughter out of dead bellies. V. There died a myriad, And of the best, among them, For an old bitch gone in the teeth, For a botched civilization.

Charm, smiling at the good mouth, Quick eyes gone under earth's lid, For two gross of broken statues, For a few thousand battered books. Yeux Glauques Gladstone was still respected, When John Ruskin produced "Kings Treasuries"; Swinburne And Rossetti still abused. Fti d Buchanan lifted up his voice When that faun's head of hers Became a pastime for Painters and adulterers. The Burne-Jones cartons Have preserved her eyes; Still, at the Tate, they teach Cophetua to rhapsodize; Thin like brook-water, With a vacant gaze. The English Rubaiyat was still-born In those days. The thin, clear gaze, the same Still darts out faun-like from the half-ruin'd face, Questing and passive...

"Ah, poor Jenny's case.".. Bewildered that a world Shows no surprise At her last maquero's Adulteries. "Siena Mi Fe', Disfecemi Maremma" Among the pickled fuses and bottled bones, Engaged in perfecting the catalogue, I found the last scion of the Senatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog. For two hours he talked of Galli fet; Of Dowson; of the Rhymers' Club; Told me how Johnson (Lionel) died By falling from a high stool in a pub...

But showed no trace of alcohol At the autopsy, privately performed - Tissue preserved - the pure mind Arose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed. Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels; Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbued With raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church. So spoke the author of "The Dorian Mood", M. Verog, out of step with the decade, Detached from his contemporaries, Neglected by the young, Because of these reveries. Brennbaum. The sky-like limpid eyes, The circular infant's face, The stiffness from spats to collar Never relaxing into grace; The heavy memories of Horeb, Sinai and the forty years, Showed only when the daylight fell Level across the face Of Brennbaum "The Impeccable". Mr. Nixon In the cream gilded cabin of his steam yacht Mr. Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewer Dangers of delay.

"Consider Carefully the reviewer. "I was as poor as you are; "When I began I got, of course, "Advance on royalties, fifty at first", said Mr. Nixon, "Follow me, and take a column, "Even if you have to work free. "Butter reviewers. From fifty to three hundred "I rose in eighteen months; "The hardest nut I had to crack "Was Dr. Dundas. "I never mentioned a man but with the view "Of selling my own works.

"The tip's a good one, as for literature "It gives no man a sinecure". And no one knows, at sight a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it". Likewise a friend of Bloughram's once advised me: Don't kick against the pricks, Accept opinion. The "Nineties" tried your game And died, there's nothing in it. X. Beneath the sagging roof The stylist has taken shelter, Unpaid, uncelebrated, At last from the world's welter Nature receives him, With a placid and uneducated mistress He exercises his talents And the soil meets his distress. The haven from sophistication's and contentions Leaks through its thatch; He offers succulent cooking; The door has a creaking latch.

XI. "Conserv atrix of Mil sien" Habits of mind and feeling, Possibly. But in Ealing With the most bank-clerkly of Englishmen No, "Milian" is an exaggeration. No instinct has survived in her Older than those her grandmother Told her would fit her station. XII.

"Daphne with her thighs in bark Stretches toward me her leafy hands", - Subjectively. In the stuffed-satin drawing-room I await The Lady Valentine's commands, Knowing my coat has never been Of precisely the fashion To stimulate, in her, A durable passion; Doubtful, somewhat, of the value Of well-gowned approbation Of literary effort, But never of The Lady Valentine's vocation: Poetry, her border of ideas, The edge, uncertain, but a means of blending With other strata Where the lower and higher have ending; A hook to catch the Lady Jane's attention, A modulation toward the theatre, Also, in the case of revolution, A possible friend and comforter. Conduct, on the other hand, the soul "Which the highest cultures have nourished" To Fleet St. where Dr. Johnson flourished; Beside this thoroughfare The sale of half-hose has Long since superseded the cultivation Of Pierian roses. 1920 344.