The Flower of Old Japan: And Other Poems

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Macmillan, 1907 - English poetry - 175 pages
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Page v - CASSÉ 0 ciel ! toute la Chine est par terre en morceaux ! Ce vase pâle et doux comme un reflet des eaux, Couvert d'oiseaux, de fleurs, de fruits, et des mensonges De ce vague idéal qui sort du bleu des songes, Ce vase unique, étrange, impossible, engourdi, Gardant sur lui le clair de lune en plein midi, Qui paraissait vivant, où luisait une flamme, Qui semblait presque un monstre et semblait presque une âme, Mariette, en faisant la chambre, l'a poussé Du coude par mégarde, et le voilà brisé!
Page 165 - Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows? A man that died on a lonely hill May tell you, perhaps, but none other will, Little child. What does it take to make a rose, Mother-mine? The God that died to make it knows It takes the world's eternal wars, It takes the moon and all the stars, It takes the might of heaven and hell And the everlasting Love as well, Little child.
Page 178 - I. The Middle Ages — Influence of the Roman Empire — The Encyclopaedic Education of the Church — The Feudal System. VOLUME II. The Renaissance and the Reformation — Influence of the Court and the Universities.
Page 60 - Shores no seaman ever hailed, Seas no ship has ever sailed. All the shores when day is done Fade into the setting sun, So the story tries to teach More than can be told in speech. Beauty is a fading flower, Truth is but a wizard's tower, Where a solemn death-bell tolls, And a forest round it rolls. We have come by curious ways To the light that holds the days; We have sought in haunts of fear For that all-enfolding sphere: And lo! it was not far, but near. We have found, O foolish-fond, The shore...
Page 13 - Jugglers offer you snakes and fish, Dreams and dragons and gingerbread; Beautiful books with marvellous pictures, Painted pirates and streaming gore, And everyone reads, without any strictures, Tales he remembers for evermore. There when the dim blue daylight lingers Listening, and the West grows holy, Singers crouch with their long white fingers Floating over the zithern slowly: Paper lamps with a peachy bloom Burn above on the dim blue bough, While the zitherns gild the gloom With curious music!...
Page xiii - ... an attempt to follow the careless and happy feet of children back into the kingdom of those dreams which, as we said above, are the sole reality worth living and dying for; those beautiful dreams, or those fantastic jests — if any care to call them so—- for which mankind has endured so many triumphant martyrdoms that even amidst the rush and roar of modern materialism they cannot be quite forgotten.
Page 132 - from morn till night, With bleeding hands and blinded sight For gold, more gold ! They have betrayed The trust that in their souls was laid ; Their fairy birthright they have sold For little disks of mortal gold ; And now they cannot even see The gold upon the greenwood tree, The wealth of coloured lights that pass In soft gradations through the grass, The riches of the love untold That wakes the day from grey to gold ; And howsoe'er the moonlight weaves Magic webs among the leaves...
Page 146 - And then, in one splendid marching stream The whole of that host came following through. We were only children, just like you ; Children, ah, but we felt so grand As we led them — although we could understand Nothing at all of the wonderful song That rose all round as we marched along. SONG. " ' You that have seen how the world and its glory Change and grow old like the love of a friend ; You that have come to the end of the story ; You that were tired ere you came to the end ; You that are weary...
Page 82 - I wonder if you've ever dreamed, In summer's noonday sleep, Of what the thyme and heather seemed To ladybirds that creep Like little crimson shimmering gems Between the tiny twisted stems Of fairy forests deep; And what it looks like as they pass Through jungles of the golden grass.
Page 169 - We told dear father all our tale That night before we went to bed, And at the end his face grew pale, And he bent over us and said (Was it not strange ?) he, too, was there, A weary, weary watch to keep Before the Gates of the City of Sleep ; But, ere we came, he did not dare Even to dream of entering in, Or even to hope for Peterkin. He was the poor blind man, he said, And we — how low he bent his head ! Then he called mother near, and low He whispered to us — ' Prompt me now ; For I forget...

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