Poet Lore, Volume 32

Front Cover
Writer's Center, 1921
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Page 478 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Page 91 - ... What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by. Richard loves Richard: that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here?
Page 260 - Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done...
Page 91 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Page 415 - We are the fools of time and terror : Days Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. In all the days of this detested yoke — This vital weight upon the struggling heart, Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, Or...
Page 91 - Give me another horse, — bind up my wounds, — Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft ! I did but dream. — 0 coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! — The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What, do I fear myself ? there's none else by : Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here ? No ; — yes, I am : Then fly. What, from myself ? Great reason why, — Lest I revenge.
Page 91 - I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me ; And, if I die, no soul will pity me : — Nay, wherefore should they?
Page 259 - Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for...
Page 260 - And then we shall unwillingly return Back to this meadow of calamity, This uncongenial place, this human life; And in our individual human state Go through the sad probation all again, To see if we will poise our life at last, To see if we will now at last be true To our own only true, deep-buried selves, Being one with which we are one with the whole world...
Page 260 - I say: Fear not! Life still Leaves human effort scope ! But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope; Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair ! A long pause.

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