The Variorum and Definitive Edition of the Poetical and Prose Writings of Edward Fitzgerald: Including a Complete Bibliography and Interesting Personal and Literary Notes, Volume 1

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Doubleday, Page and Company, 1902
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Page 22 - Into this Universe, and why not knowing, Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing: And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
Page 21 - And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend — ourselves to make a Couch — for whom? Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend ; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie.
Page 208 - Embrouded was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede. 90 Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day ; He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Page 20 - I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Page 23 - THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!" xxxv Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd — " While you live, Drink! — for, once dead, you never shall return.
Page 17 - AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight : And Lo ! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
Page 27 - The Vine had struck a fibre: which about If clings my Being — let the Dervish flout; Of my Base metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
Page 20 - And those who husbanded the Golden grain, And those who flung it to the winds like Rain, Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
Page 32 - Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows...
Page 21 - Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End!

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