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Men who are sour at missing larger game
There's more of odd than even in this world.
'Tis but a toilsome game To bet upon that feather Policy, And guess where after twice a hundred puffs 'Twill catch another feather crossing it : Guess how the Pope will blow and how the king ; What force my lady's fan has ; how a cough Seizing the Padre's throat may raise a gust, And how the queen may sigh the feather down. Such catching at imaginary threads, Such spinning twisted air, is not for me. If I should want a game, I'll rather bet On racing snails, two large, slow, lingering snailsNo spurring, equal weights--a chance sublime, Nothing to guess at, pure uncertainty.
Your teaching orthodoxy with faggots may only bring up a fashion of roasting.
Knightly love is blent with reverence
Fedalma.—Good Juan, I could have no nobler
friend. You'd ope your veins and let your life-blood out To save another's pain, yet hide the deed With jesting-say, 'twas merest accident, A sportive scratch that went by chance too deepAnd die content with men's slight thoughts of you, Finding your glory in another's joy,
Juan.-Dub not my likings virtues, lest they get A drug-like taste, and breed a nausea. Honey’s not sweet, commended as cathartic. Such names are parchment labels upon gems Hiding their colour. What is lovely seen Priced in a tarif ?-lapis lazuli, Such bulk, so many drachmas : amethysts Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. The stone like solid heaven in its blueness Is what I care for, not its name or price. So, if I live or die to serve my friend, *Tis for my love—'tis for my friend alone, And not for any rate that friendship bears In heaven or on earth.
Oh, it is a faith
Let men contemn us : 'tis such blind contempt
Into a new and multitudinous life
Because our race has no great memories,
The rich heritage, the milder life, Of nations fathered by a mighty Past.
Life and more life unto the chosen, death
Strong souls Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strength
In farthest striving action ; breathe more free
'Tis a vile life that like a garden pool
'he very brutes will feel the force of kin And move together, gathering a new soulThe soul of multitudes.
In vain, my daughter !
swoop of eagles overhead
(To Fedalma.)— Nay, never falter: no great deed is done
By falterers who ask for certainty.