{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_sha256": "c0802ffc2b722526f5e53a9f22ebb0d06a69c7a88672160e0e2fa9eadada5b34", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaav/issues/1914/08_01/bmtnaav_1914-08_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaav/issues/1914/08_01/bmtnaav_1914-08_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[108]", "page_fin": "[108]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "A Quarterly Publication of the Poems of", "titre_sommaire": "A Quarterly Publication of the Poems of", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[108]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 53, "fin_caractere_exclue": 166, "texte": "A Quarterly Publication of the Poems of\nRupert Brooke\nJohn Drinkwater\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nLascelles Abercrombie"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "109", "page_fin": "111", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 6, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "TIARE TAHITI", "titre_sommaire": "TIARE TAHITI", "signature_source": "Rupert Brooke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 982, "texte": "TIARE TAHITI\nRupert Brooke\nMaxima, when our laughter ends,\nAnd hearts and bodies, brown as white,\nAre dust about the doors of friends,\nOr scent ablowing down the night,\nThen, oh ! then, the wise agree,\nConies our immortality.\nMamua, there waits a land\nHard for us to understand.\nOut of time, beyond the sun,\nAll are one in Paradise,\nYou and Pupure are one,\nAnd Taii, and the ungainly wise.\nThere the Eternals are, and there\nThe Good, the Lovely, and the True,\nAnd Types, whose earthly copies were\nThe foolish broken things we knew;\nThere is the Face, whose ghosts we are;\nThe real, the never-setting Star;\nAnd the Flower, of which we love\nFaint and fading shadows here;\nNever a tear, but only Grief;\nDance, but not the limbs that move.\nSongs in Song shall disappear;\nInstead of lovers, Love shall be;\nFor hearts, Immutability;\nAnd there, on the Ideal Reef,\nThunders the Everlasting Sea!\nAnd my laughter, and my pain,\nShall home to the Eternal Brain.\nAnd all lovely things, they say,"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1055, "texte": "Meet in liveliness again;\nMiri's laugh, Te'ipo's feet,\nAnd the hands of Matua,\nStars and sunlight there shall meet,\nCoral's hues and rainbows there,\nAnd Teiira's braided hair;\nAnd with the starred tiare's white,\nAnd white birds in the dark ravine,\nAnd flamboyants ablaze at night,\nAnd jewels, and evening's after-green,\nAnd dawns of pearl and gold and red,\nMamua, your lovelier head !\nAnd there'll no more be one who dreams\nUnder the ferns, of crumbling stuff,\nEyes of illusion, mouth that seems,\nAll time-entangled human love.\nAnd you'll no longer swing and sway\nDivinely down the scented shade,\nWhere feet to Ambulation fade,\nAnd moons are lost in endless Day.\nHow shall we wind these wreaths of ours,\nWhere there are neither heads nor flowers ?\nOh, Heaven's Heaven !—but we'll be missing\nThe palms, and sunlight, and the south;\nAnd there's an end, I think, of kissing,\nWhen our mouths are one with Mouth . . .\nTau here, Mamua,\nCrown the hair, and come away!\nHear the calling of the moon,\nAnd the whispering scents that stray"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 595, "texte": "About the idle warm lagoon.\nHasten, hand in human hand,\nDown the dark, the flowered way,\nAlong the whiteness of the sand,\nAnd in the water's soft caress,\nWash the mind of foolishness,\nMamua, until the day.\nSpend the glittering moonlight there\nPursuing down the soundless deep\nIyimbs that gleam and shadowy hair,\nOr floating lazy, half-asleep.\nDive and double and follow after,\nSnare in flowers, and kiss, and call,\nWith lips that fade, and human laughter,\nAnd faces individual,\nWell this side of Paradise !\nThere's little comfort in the wise.\nPapeete, February, 1914."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "112", "page_fin": "113", "image_debut": 7, "image_fin": 8, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "RETROSPECT", "titre_sommaire": "RETROSPECT", "signature_source": "Rupert Brooke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 989, "texte": "RETROSPECT\nRupert Brooke\nIn your arms was still delight,\nQuiet as a street at night;\nAnd thoughts of you, I do remember,\nWere green leaves in a darkened chamber,\nWere dark clouds in a moonless sky.\nLove, in you, went passing by,\nPenetrative, remote, and rare,\nLike a bird in the wide air,\nAnd, as the bird, it left no trace\nIn the heaven of your face.\nIn your stupidity I found\nThe sweet hush after a sweet sound.\nAll about you was the light\nThat dims the greying end of night;\nDesire was the unrisen sun,\nJoy the day not yet begun,\nWith tree whispering to tree,\nWithout wind, quietly.\nWisdom slept within your hair,\nAnd Long-Suffering was there,\nAnd, in the flowing of your dress,\nUndiscerning Tenderness.\nAnd when you thought, it seemed to me,\nInfinitely, and like a sea,\nAbout the slight world you had known\nYour vast unconsciousness was thrown. .\nO haven without wave or tide!\nSilence, in which all songs have died!\nHoly book, where hearts are still!\nAnd home at length under the hill!"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 26, "fin_caractere_exclue": 393, "texte": "O mother quiet, breasts of peace,\nWhere love itself would faint and cease !\n0 infinite deep I never knew,\n1 would come back, come back to you,\nFind you, as a pool unstirred,\nKneel down by you, and never a word,\nLay my head, and nothing said,\nIn your hands, ungarlanded ;\nAnd a long watch you would keep;\nAnd I should sleep, and I should sleep !\nMataiea, January, 1914"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "114", "page_fin": "116", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 11, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "THE GREAT LOVER", "titre_sommaire": "THE GREAT LOVER", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1348, "texte": "THE GREAT LOVER\nI have been so great a lover : filled my days\nSo proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,\nThe pain, the calm, and the astonishment,\nDesire illimitable, and still content,\nAnd all dear names men use, to cheat despair,\nFor the perplexed and viewless streams that bear\nOur hearts at random down the dark of life.\nNow, ere the unthinking silence on that strife\nSteals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,\nMy night shall be remembered for a star\nThat outshone all the suns of all men's days.\nShall I not crown them with immortal praise\nWhom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me\nHigh secrets, and in darkness knelt to see\nThe inenarrable godhead of delight ?\nLove is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.\nA city:—and we have built it, these and I.\nAn emperor:—we have taught the world to die.\nSo, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,\nAnd the high cause of love's magnificence,\nAnd to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names\nGolden for ever, eagles, crying flames,\nAnd set them as a banner, that men may know,\nTo dare the generations, burn, and blow\nOut on the wind of Time, shining and streaming ....\nThese I have loved:\nWhite plates and cups, clean-gleaming,\nRinged with blue lines ; and feathery, faery dust;\nWet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust\nOf friendly bread; and many-tasting food;"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1462, "texte": "Rainbows ; and the blue bitter smoke of wood ;\nAnd radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;\nAnd flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,\nDreaming of moths that drink them under the moon ;\nThen, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon\nSmooth away trouble ; and the rough male kiss\nOf blankets ; grainy wood ; live hair that is\nShining and free ; blue-massing clouds ; the keen\nUnpassioned beauty of a great machine;\nThe benison of hot water; furs to touch ;\nThe good smell of old clothes ; and other such,\nThe comfortable smell of friendly fingers,\nHair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers\nAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns . . .\nDear names,\nAnd thousand other throng to me ! Royal flames ;\nSweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;\nHoles in the ground ; and voices that do sing ;\nVoices in laughter, too; and body's pain,\nSoon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;\nFirm sands; the little dulling edge of foam\nThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;\nAnd washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold\nGraveness of iron ; moist black earthen mould ;\nSleep ; and high places ; footprints in the dew ;\nAnd oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;\nAnd new-pealed sticks ; and shining pools on grass;—\nAll these have been my loves. And these shall pass,\nWhatever passes not, in the great hour,\nNor all my passion, all my prayers, have power\nTo hold them with me through the gate of Death."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 668, "texte": "They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,\nBreak the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust\nAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.\nOh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,\nAnd give what's left of love again, and make\nNew friends, now strangers ....\nBut the best I've known,\nStays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown\nAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brains\nOf living men, and dies.\nNothing remains.\nO dear my loves, O faithless, once again\nThis one last gift I give : that after men\nShall know, and later lovers, far-removed,\nPraise you, \" All these were lovely \" ; say, \"He loved.\"\nMataiea, 1914."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "117", "page_fin": "117", "image_debut": 12, "image_fin": 12, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "WAIKIKI", "titre_sommaire": "WAIKIKI", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 649, "texte": "WAIKIKI\nWarm perfumes like a breath from vine and tree\nDrift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes,\nSomewhere an eukaleli thrills and cries\nAnd stabs with pain the night's brown savagery.\nAnd dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,\nGleam like a woman's hair, stretch out, and rise;\nAnd new stars burn into the ancient skies,\nOver the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.\nAnd I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,\nAnd still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,\nAn empty tale, of idleness and pain,\nOf two that loved—or did not love—and one\nWhose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,\nA long while since, and by some other sea.\nWaikiki, 1913."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "118", "page_fin": "118", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "HAUNTINGS", "titre_sommaire": "HAUNTINGS", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 665, "texte": "HAUNTINGS\nIn the grey tumult of these after years\nOft silence falls ; the incessant wranglers part ;\nAnd less-than-echoes of remembered tears\nHush all the loud confusion of the heart;\nAnd a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying,\nHungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood,—\nQuite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,\nComes back the ecstasy of your quietude.\nSo a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,\nIs haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,\nHints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,\nStars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,\nAnd light on waving grass, he knows not when,\nAnd feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.\nThe Pacific, 1914."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "119", "page_fin": "131", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 26, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "THE STORM", "titre_sommaire": "THE STORM", "signature_source": "John Drinkwater", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1128, "texte": "THE STORM\nJohn Drinkwater\n(To 8.V.J.)\nThe Characters are—\nALICE.\nJOAN, her young Sister.\nSARAH.\nAN OLD MAN.\nA YOUNG STRANGER.\nA mountain cottage. It is a midwinter night. Outside a snowstorm\nrages.\nAlice is looking through the window. Joan, her young sister, and\nSarah, an old neighbour woman, are sitting over the fire.\nAlice : It isn't fair of God. Eyes are no good,\nNor lanterns in a blackness like to that.\nHow can they find him out ? It isn't fair.\nSarah: God is for prayers. You'll anger Him speaking so.\nAlice : I have prayed these hours, and now I'm tired of it.\nHe is caught in some grip of the rocks, and crying out,\nAnd crying and crying, and none can hear him cry,\nBecause of this great beastliness of noise.\nSarah : Past crying now, I think.\nJoan : There, take no heed\nOf what she says—it's a rusty mind she has,\nBeing old, and wizened with bad luck on the hills.\nSarah: Rusty or no, I've a thought the man is dead.\nNo news has been growing apace from nightfall on\nInto bad news, and now it's as though one stood\nAt the door and said,—we found him lying cold.\nAlice : Whist! you old bitter woman. Will it never stay"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1189, "texte": "In its wicked fury, . . . and the snow's like a black rain\nWhipping the crying wind. If it would rest awhile\nI could think and mind me what were best to do\nTo help my man. But a savagery like this\nBeats at the wits till they have no tidiness.\nSarah: We'll sit and wait till they come.\nAlice : And I a woman\nWould never let him ask for anything,\nBecause of the daily thought I took for him,—\nAnd against this spite now I've no strength at all.\nSarah : For all you would bake his bread to a proper turn\nAnd remember always the day for his clean shift,\nThere was many a scolding word for him to bear.\nJoan: Hush—\nAlice: Let her talk. What does she know at all,—\nThinking crossed words between a man and a woman\nHave anything to do with the heart ? We have,\nMy man and I, more than a fretful mood\nCan thieve or touch. My man—I must go myself.\nJoan : There is nothing you could do.\nSarah: 'Tis men\nShould carry the dead man in.\nAlice: My man\nIs alive Isay—surely my man's not dead—\nSurely, I say—old woman, your croaking talk\nTeases my brain like the pestilence out there\nTill I doubt the thing I know. There's not a crag\nOr a cleft of the hills but is natural to him"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1351, "texte": "As the stairs beyond the door there—surely, surely—\nYet nothing is sure.\nSarah: Death has a way with him,\nA confident way.\nAlice : You know that he's not dead—\nI know that too—if only that dark rage\nHowling out there would leave tormenting me,\nAnd let me reason it out in peace a little,\nI could be quite, quite sure that he's not dead.\nSarah : Age is a quiet place where you can watch\nThe world bent with its pain and still be patient,\nAnd warm your hands by the fire because you know\nThat the newest sorrow and the oldest sorrow are one.\nThey will bring him and put him down upon the floor:\nBe ready for that, girl. There are times when hope is cruel\nAs a fancy-man that goes without good-bye.\nAlice: I have a brain that is known in three shire-towns\nFor a level bargain. It is strange that I should be\nListening now to a cracked old woman's clatter\nWhen my own thoughts for him should be so clear\nThat I shouldn't heed the words of another body.\nI want no hope—only an easy space\nTo remember the skill of my man among the hills\nAnd how he would surely match their cunning with his,—\nOr else to count the hours that he's been gone\nAnd see that his chance is whittled quite away.\nTo have a living thought against this fear\nIs all I want—but those screaming devils there\nBeat in my mind like the drums in Carnarvon streets\nB"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1356, "texte": "That they use when they want to cheat folk into thinking\nThat death is a handsome trade.—And so\nI let a woman with none but leaky wits\nTell me the way I should be,—when most I need\nTo ride no borrowed sense.\nSarah : It is not wind,\nFor all it is louder than any flood on the hills,\nNor the crazy snow that maddens you till your brain\nIs like three cats howling upon a wall,\nBut the darkness that comes creeping on a woman\nWhen she knows of grief before it is spoken out.\nAnd the sooner grieved is grief the sooner gone.\nBe ready to make him decent for the grave.\nJoan : If he should walk in now you will not forget\nThe trouble you are putting in the house with your talk.\nSarah : The trouble is here.\nAlice : If he should walk in now—\nYes, that's the way to think. I'll work it out,\nSlowly, his doings from when he left the door\nUntil he comes again. You stood at the oven\nWith cakes half-browned against his tea. And I\nStood here beside my man and strapped his coat\nUnder his chin. He looked across your way—\nHe is fond of you, child—he calls you Father Joan\nBecause—but that's not it—I told him then\nTo-morrow would be time to bring the slates,\nAnd let him only mend the wire to-day—\nHe thought so too and said—it is like a beast\nGreater than half the world and crushed in a trap,\nShrieking against the pain—what did he say ?—"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1385, "texte": "I have forgotten now, and I had begun\nTo follow it all quite clearly—what did he say ?\nJoan : That an hour would see him back, and hungry too.\nAlice: An hour would bring him back—but that is nothing\nI know it now: he went to the broken wire\nAnd mended it—three quarters of an hour—\nAnd then he would think that after all the slates\nWere best bespoken now—six miles to go :\nHe would be about a mile when this began—\nThis wrath that will surely last till the Judgment Day—\nAnd that would make two hours till he reached the quarry—\nBut he went on, and the neighbours up and down\nWere scared and went out searching with their lanterns,\nIyike lighted gnats searching the mines of hell.\nIsn't it queer to see them out there dancing\nWhen all the time he has gone a twelve mile journey—\nAnd then this old woman came with her neighbour duty—\nIt's odd folk are,—\nSarah: It's a poor thing, spinning tales\nWhen there's no faith in them.\nAlice : Hush, I have it all\nQuite clearly now, in spite of that monster baying,—\nTwo hours to the quarry, hindered by the night,\nThen half an hour to bargain, then two hours\nFor beating back, his boots heavy with snow,\nOr a little longer—five hours and more all told—\nIt is nine o'clock—he went five hours ago,\nOr a little more, so that's just how it works—\nHe should be coming now along the road,\nTired—we must warm the cakes again."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1100, "texte": "Sarah : Ay, warm them,\nA dead man's heavy bearing.\nThe clock strikes nine.\nAlice : That's the time\nTo bring him back, and we'll call the lanterns in—\nHe must be near by now—\nA man is heard outside, kicking the\nsnow off his boots. Alice opens the\ndoor, and an old man comes in, carrying\nan unlit lantern.\nThe Old]Man : My candle is spent.\nJoan takes the lantern and fits a new\ncandle while they speak.\nAlice: And you are going out again ?\nThey have not found him ?\nThe Old Man : No. It's not easy there.\nAlice : Then he didn't go to the quarry after all.\nJoan : Because they hav'n't found him ? That's no sign.\nThey couldn't if he went.\nAlice : Ah yes—how is it?—\nHe went, and they've been looking on the hills—\nBut have not found him. Yes—he must have gone.\nHe should be back. You should have found him for me.\nSarah : She is strange because of the trouble in the house.\nI am old, and that is something.\nAlice : It is not that—\nI am caught away from myself by the screaming thing\nThat scourges the hills. And yet in spite of that\nI had reckoned all his doings since he went"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1335, "texte": "Until his time for coming—but you came—\nYou came instead. That is not right.\nThe Old Man {taking the lantern and lighting it) : We'll send\nAcross to the quarry now—\nAlice : It is no use—\nHell not have gone.\nThe Old Man : The night is full of tricks,\nBut another hour will have ferreted all the hill.\nHe goes out.\nSarah: Simon who took his money down to market\nAnd wouldn't change for a good sound fact of cattle,\nFingered his earnings till a hole was worn\nAnd came to the house again with an empty bag.\nIyeave making tales, my girl, poor tales—they bring no profit,\nKeeping the truth outside, and breaking away\nTo a thimbleful of ash themselves. He is dead.\nThink hard on that. When the old king of the world\nWith the scourge and flail turns his strokes from the wheat\nOn the goodman's floor and scars the goodman's back,\nIt is no time to wince. Your man is dead.\nAnd a day and a day make Adam's fall a story.\nAlice: Not down to the quarry—then—my little Joan,\nDo you know at all what a man becomes to a woman ?\nHow should you though ? If a man should take\nA patch of the barren hill and dig with his hands,\nAnd down and down till he came to marble and gold,\nAnd labouring then for a dozen years or twenty\nShould build a place finer than Solomon's hall\nTill strangers with money to travel came to praise it,"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1347, "texte": "And, when he had dug and hewn and spent his years\nTo make it a wonder, should go, and be remembered\nNo more than an onion-pedlar in the street\nBy the gaping travellers, yet he might be glad,\nIf his heart was as big as a woman's, for the thing he'd made,\nThe strong and lovely thing, knowing it risen\nOut of his thought into the talk of the world.\nThat's how it is. A woman takes a mate,\nAnd like the patient builder governs him\nInto the goodman known through a countryside,\nOr the wise friend that the neighbours will seek out,\nAnd he, for all his love, may never know\nHow she has nourished the dear fine mastery\nThat bids him daily down the busy road\nAnd leaves her by the hearth. And when he is dead\nIt comes to her that the strength she has given him\nTo make him a gallant figure among them all\nHas been the thing that has filled her, and she lonely,\nOr gossiping with the folk, or about the house.\nSarah : When he is dead.\nAlice : Why should I think of that ?\nI am crazed, I say, because of the madness loosed\nAnd beating against the panes. He is not dead—\nYou know it woman— Joan, it would be a lie\nTo say my man is dead ?\nJoan : There, sister, wait—\nIt is all we can do—there is nothing else to do.\nSarah: When he is dead. Let the thought that comes unbidden\nBe welcome, for it's the best thought. When he is dead."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1161, "texte": "Alice : There is treachery against us—my man—my dear—\nMy brave love—they are trying to part us now !\nBut we must be too strong when .... when he is dead ....\nThere is a knock at the door. She\nmakes a half movement towards it.\nHe would not knock. See who it is.\nJoan opens the door and a Young\nTraveller, buffeted and breathless, comes\nin.\nThe Stranger : By Thor !\nThere's beauty trampling men like crumpled leaves.\nMay I come in till it's gone ?\nJoan: Surely.\nThe Stranger : I set\nEvery sinew taut against this power,\nThis supple torrent of might that suddenly rose\nOut of the fallen dusk and sang and leapt\nLike an athlete of the gods frenzied with wine.\nIt seemed to rear challenging against me,\nAs though the master from Valhalla's tables,\nGrown heady in his revels, had cried out—\nBehold me now crashing across the earth\nTo shake the colonies of antic men\nInto a fear shall be a jest, my fellows !\nAnd I measured myself against this bragging pride,\nClimbing step by step through the blinding riot\nOf frozen flakes swung on the cataract wind,\nMy veins praising the tyranny that was matched\nAgainst this poor ambitious body of mine."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1235, "texte": "Alice : The storm is drenched with treachery and sin—\nIt is not good to praise it.\nThe Stranger : You on the hills\nGrow dulled, maybe, to the royalty that finds\nIn your crooked world a thousand splendid hours,\nAnd a storm to you is but a hindered task\nOr a wall for mending or a gap in the flock.\nBut I was strange among this gaiety\nPlying black looms in a black firmament,\nThis joy that was spilt out of the iron heavens\nWhere pity is not bidden to the hearts\nOf the immaculate gods. I was a dream,\nA cold monotony suddenly thrust\nInto a waking world of lusty change,\nA wizened death elected from the waste\nTo strive and mate with eager lords of tumult.\nBeauty was winged about me, darkling speed\nTook pressure of earth and smote against my face;\nI rode upon the front of heroic hours,\nAnd once was on the crest of the world's tide,\nUnseared as the elements.—But he mastered me,\nThat god striking a star for holiday,\nAnd filled himself with great barbaric laughter\nTo see me slink away.\nAlice : It is no god,\nBut a brainless anger, a gaunt and evil thing\nThat blame can't reach.\nThe Stranger : Not all have eyes to see.—\nI'm harsh with my words, but I come from a harsh quarrel\nWith larger thews than man's."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1272, "texte": "Alice : Stranger, lld give\nComely words to any who knocks at the door.\nYou are welcome—but leave your praising of this blight.\nYou safely gabbing of sly and cruel furies,\nLike a child laughing before a cage of tigers.\nYou with your fancy talk of lords and gods\nAnd your hero-veins—young man, do you know this night\nIs eating through my bones into the marrow,\nAnd creeping round my brain till thought is dead,\nAnd making my heart the oldest thing of any ?\nDo you see those lights ?\nThe Stranger : They seemed odd moving there,\nIn a storm like this.\nAlice : A man is lost on the hills.\nThe Stranger : That's bad. But who ?\nAlice : My man is lost on the hills.\nSarah : She has it now; her man is dead on the hills.\nThe Stranger: I talked amiss, not knowing of trouble here.\nBut why should he be dead ?\nAlice : The woman is worn,\nHer mind is worn, and she lives out of the world.\nYou ask at once as any wise man would.\nI have told her and told and told that he's not dead,\nAnd my young sister, too, though but a girl,\nSays it, and she has a head beyond her years.\nHe is lost for an hour, or maybe for a night,\nBut never dead. That is the way you think ?\nIt is waiting that steals your proper sense away;\nAnd then, although you know, you let in fear"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1404, "texte": "Blaspheming the thing you know—it is waiting to-night\nIn the midst of an idiot wrath drumming and drumming\nL,ike a plague of bees in swarm above your eyes.\nIdo not know—I have not any strength\nTo fathom it now, and there is none to tell me.\nSarah : She knows it all, though the thing is hard to say.\nAlice : Have done ! Young stranger, you have travelled the world.\nI think, or have grown learned in great cities,\nAnd can tell the way things go—is it not wrong\nTo say that a man because of an ugly night\nShould perish on his home-ground ? He would find a road\nOut of a danger such as that, because\nThat is the way things happen—tell me now ?\nThe Stranger: It is likely that he would.\nAlice : You hear that, Joan—\nA traveller who has been in foreign dangers\nAnd comes a scholar from a hundred cities\nSays it is well, and that we must be patient.\nThe Stranger : No, I've not travelled, and I only say a man\nKnowing the hills would likely weather a storm.\nAlice : There, there—you must not take it back again,\nBecause you know, and you have said it is well.\nSarah : They cut a stone that is like a small church window,\nAnd they carve a name and a line out of the book,\nAnd when that's done there is nothing then to doubt.\nThe storm has suddenly cleared. The\"\nsilence falls upon them strangely, and there'\nis a pause.\nAlice : It is spent at last. He will come from his shelter now."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 774, "texte": "My dear—come soon. Set the kettle again.\nJoan does so. There is another pause.\nI have my thought again. It is an end.\nlam broken. There is no pity anywhere.\nThe Stranger: The lights are coming.\nSarah : The anger never bates,\nBut scourges us till time betrays the limbs,\nAnd strikes the tongue, and puts pence on the eyes,\nAnd leaves the latch for stranger hands to lift.\nThe blackness beyond the window has\ngiven place to clear starlight on the hills.\nA number of men with lanterns pass by.\nThere is a knock: Alice opens the door,\nand the old man stands there with his\nlighted lantern. She looks at him, and\nneither speaks. She turns away to the\ntable.\nAlice : Why have we waited .... all this time .... to know\nHer sorrow breaks over her.\nThe End"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "132", "page_fin": "134", "image_debut": 27, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "WHEELS", "titre_sommaire": "WHEELS", "signature_source": "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1408, "texte": "WHEELS\nWilfrid Wilson Gibson\nTo safety of the kerb he thrust the crone :\nWhen a shaft took him in the back, and prone\nHe tumbled heavily, but all unheard\nAmid the scurry of wheels that crashed and whirred\nAbout his senseless head—his helmet crushed\nIyike crumpled paper by a car that rushed\nUpon him unaware. And as he lay\nHe heard again the wheels he'd heard all day\nAbout him on point-duty . . . only now\nEach red-hot wheel ran searing over his brow—\nA sizzling star with hub and spokes and tyre\nOne monstrous Catherine-wheel of sparking fire\nWhirring down windy tunnels of the night . . .\nThat Catherine-wheel, somehow it will not light—\nFixed to the broken paling ; and the pin\nPricks the boy's finger as he jabs it in :\nHe sucks the salty blood—the spiteful thing\nFires, whizzing, sputtering sparks: he feels them sting\nHis wincing cheek; and, on the damp night-air,\nThe stench of burnt saltpetre and singed hair . . .\nWhile still he lies and listens without fear\nTo the loud traffic rumbling in his ear—\nWheels rumbling in his ear, and through his brain\nFor evermore, a never-ending train\nOf scarlet postal-vans that whirl one red\nPerpetual hot procession through his head—\nHis head that's just a clanking, clattering mill\nOf grinding wheels . . . and down an endless hill\nAfter his hoop he runs, a little lad,\nBarefooted 'neath the stars, in nightshirt clad—\nAnd stumbles into bed, the stars all gone,"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 30, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1414, "texte": "Though in his head the hoop keeps running on\nAnd on and on : his head grown big and wide\nHolds all the windy night and stars inside .\nAnd still within a hair's breadth of his ear\nThe crunch and gride of wheels rings sharp and clear,\nHuge lumbering wagons, crusted axle-deep\nWith country marl, their drivers half-asleep\nAgainst green toppling mounds of cabbages\nStill crisp with dewy airs, or stacks of cheese\nSmelling of Arcady, till all the sky\nIn clouds of cheese and cabbages rolls by—\nGreat golden cheeses wheeling through the night,\nAnd giant cabbages of emerald light\nThat tumble after, scattering crystal drops . . .\nWhile in his ear the grinding never stops—\nWheels grinding asphalt . . . then a high-piled wain\nOf mignonette in boxes . . . and again,\nA baby at his father's cottage-door\nHe toddles, treading on his pinafore,\nAnd tumbles headlong in a bed of bloom,\nHalf smothered in the deep, sweet honeyed gloom\nOf crushed, wet blossom; and the hum of bees—\nBig bumble-bees that buzz through flowery trees—\nGrows furious . . . changing to a roar of wheels\nAnd honk of hooting horns: and now he feels\nThat all the cars in London filled with light\nAre bearing down upon him through the night,\nAs out of hall and theatre there pour\nWhite-shouldered women, ever more and more,\nBright-eyed, with flashing teeth, borne in a throng\nOf purring, glittering cars, ten thousand strong:"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 30, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1156, "texte": "Each drowsy dame and eager chattering lass\nlaughing unheard within her box of glass . . .\nAnd then great darkness, and a clanging bell—\nClanging beneath the hollow dome of hell\nAglow like burnished copper; and a roar\nOf wheels and wheels and wheels for evermore,\nAs engine after engine crashes by\nWith clank and rattle under that red sky,\nDropping a trail of burning coals behind,\nThat scorch his eyeballs till he lies half-blind,\nSmouldering to cinder in a vasty night\nOf wheeling worlds and stars in whirring flight,\nAnd suns that blaze in thunderous fury on\nFor ever and for ever, yet are gone\nBre he can gasp to see them . . . head to heels\nSlung round a monstrous red-hot hub, that wheels\nAcross infinity, with spokes of fire\nThat dwindle slowly till the shrinking tyre\nIs clamped like aching ice about his head . . .\nHe smells clean acid smells : and safe in bed\nHe wakens in a lime-washed ward, to hear\nSomebody moaning almost in his ear,\nAnd knows that it's himself that moans : and then,\nBattling his way back to the world of men,\nHe sees with leaden eyelids opening wide,\nHis young wife gravely knitting by his side."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaav-1914-08-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaav_1914-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "135", "page_fin": "146", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 41, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "HOOPS", "titre_sommaire": "HOOPS", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1663, "texte": "HOOPS\nSCENE : The big tent-stable of a travelling circus. On the ground\nnear the entrance, GENTLEMAN JOHN, stableman and general\nodd-job man, lies smoking beside MERRY ANDREW, the clown.\nGENTLEMAN JOHN is a little hunched man with a sensitive face\nand dreamy eyes. MERRY ANDREW, who is resting between\nthe afternoon and evening performances, with his clown's hat lying\nbeside him, wears a crimson wig, and a baggy suit of orange-coloured\ncotton, patterned with purple cats. His face is chalked dead white,\nand painted with a set grin, so that it is impossible to see what manner\nof man he is. In the background are camels and elephants feeding,\ndimly visible in the steamy dusk of the tent.\nGentleman John : And then consider camels : only think\nOf camels long enough, and you'ld go mad—\nWith all their humps and lumps; their knobbly knees,\nSplay feet, and straddle legs; their sagging necks,\nFlat flanks, and scraggy tails, and monstrous teeth.\nI've not forgotten the first fiend I met :\n'Twas in a lane in Smyrna, just a ditch\nBetween the shuttered houses, and so narrow\nThe brute's bulk blocked the road; the huge green stack\nOf dewy fodder that it slouched beneath\nBrushing the yellow walls on either hand,\nAnd shutting out the strip of burning blue:\nAnd I'd to face that vicious bobbing head\nWith evil eyes, slack lips, and nightmare teeth,\nAnd duck beneath the snaky squirming neck,\nPranked with its silly string of bright blue beads,\nThat seemed to wriggle every way at once,\nAs though it were a hydra. Allah's beard!\nBut I was scared, and nearly turned and ran.\nI felt that muzzle take me by the scruff,\nAnd heard those murderous teeth crunching my spine,"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1331, "texte": "Before I stooped—though I dodged safely under.\nI've always been afraid of ugliness:\nI'm such a toad myself, I hate all toads;\nAnd the camel is the ugliest toad of all\nTo my mind; and it's just my devil's luck\nI've come to this—to be a camel's lackey,\nTo fetch and carry for original sin;\nFor, sure enough, the camel's old evil incarnate.\nBlue beads and amulets to ward off evil!\nNo eye's more evil than a camel's eye.\nThe elephant is quite a comely beast,\nCompared with Satan camel,—trunk and all,\nHis floppy ears, and his inconsequent tail.\nHe's stolid, but, at least, a gentleman.\nIt does not hurt my pride to valet him,\nAnd bring his shaving-water. He's a lord.\nOnly the bluest blood that has come down\nThrough generations from the mastodon\nCould carry off that tail with dignity,\nThat tail and trunk. He cannot look absurd,\nFor all the monkey tricks you put him through,\nYour paper hoops and popguns. He just makes\nHis masters look ridiculous, when his pomp's\nButchered to make a bumpkin's holiday.\nHe's dignity itself, and proper pride,\nThat stands serenely in a circus-world\nOf mountebanks and monkeys. He has weight\nBehind him: aeons of primeval power\nHave shaped that pillared bulk; and he stands sure,\nSolid, substantial on the world's foundations.\nAnd he has form, form that's too big a thing"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1304, "texte": "To be called beauty. Once, long since, I thought\nTo be a poet, and shape words, and mould\nA poem like an elephant, huge, sublime,\nTo front oblivion : and because I failed,\nAnd all my rhymes were gawky, shambling camels,\nOr else obscene, blue-buttocked apes, I'm doomed\nTo lackey it for things such as I've made,\nTill one of them crunches my back-bone with his teeth,\nOr knocks my wind out with a forthright kick\nClean in the midriff: crumpling up in death\nThe hunched and stunted body that was me,\nJohn, the apostle of the Perfect Form!\nJerusalem ! I'm talking—like a book,\nAs you would say: and a bad book at that,\nA maundering, kiss-mammy book—The Hunchback's End\nOr The Camel-Keeper's Reward—would be the title.\nI froth and bubble like a new-broached cask.\nNo wonder you look glum, for all your grin.\nWhat makes you mope ? You've naught to growse about.\nYou've got no hump. Your body's brave and straight—\nSo shapely even that you can afford\nTo trick it in fantastic shapelessness,\nKnowing that there's a clean-limbed man beneath\nPreposterous pantaloons and purple cats.\nI would have been a poet, if I could :\nBut better than shaping poems 'twould have been,\nTo have had a comely body and clean limbs\nObedient to my bidding.\nMerry Andrew: I missed a hoop\nThis afternoon.\nc"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1238, "texte": "Gentleman John : You missed a hoop ? You mean . . .\nMerry Andrew : That lam done, used up, scrapped, on the shelf,\nOut of the running—only that, no more.\nGentleman John: Well, I've been missing hoops my whole life\n[long;\nThough, when I come to think of it, perhaps\nThere's little consolation to be chewed\nFrom crumbs that I can offer.\nMerry Andrew : I've not missed\nA hoop since I was six. I'm forty-two.\nThis is the first time that my body's failed me :\nBut 'twill not be the last. And .\nGentleman John : Such is life !\nYou're going to say. You see I've got it pat,\nYour jaded wheeze. Lord, what a wit I'ld make\nIf I'd a set grin painted on my face.\nAnd such is life, I'ld say a hundred times,\nAnd each time set the world aroar afresh\nAt my original humour. Missed a hoop !\nWhy, man alive, you've naught to grumble at.\nI've boggled every hoop since I was six.\nI'm fifty-five; and I've run round a ring\nWould make this potty circus seem a pinhole.\nI wasn't born to sawdust. I'd the world\nFor circus . . .\nMerry Andrew : It's no time for crowing now.\nI know a gentleman, and take on trust\nThe silver spoon and all. My teeth were cut\nUpon a horseshoe : and I wasn't born\nTo purple and fine linen—but to sawdust,"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1282, "texte": "To sawdust, as you say—brought up on sawdust.\nI've had to make my daily bread of sawdust:\nAy, and my children's,—children's, that's the rub,\nAs Shakespeare says . . .\nGentleman John : Ah, there you go again !\nWhat a rare wit to set the ring aroar—\nAs Shakespeare says ! Crowing ? A gentleman ?\nMan, didn't you say you'd never missed a hoop ?\nIt's only gentlemen who miss no hoops,\nClean-livers, easy lords of life who take\nEach obstacle at a leap, who never fail.\nYou are the gentleman.\nMerry Andrew: Now don't you try\nBeing funny at my expense; or you'll soon find\nI'm not quite done for yet—not quite snuffed out.\nThere's still a spark of life. You may have words :\nBut I've a fist will be a match for them.\nWords slaver feebly from a broken jaw.\nI've always lived straight, as a man must do\nIn my profession, if held keep in fettle :\nBut I'm no gentleman, for I fail to see\nThere's any sport in baiting a poor man\nBecause he's losing grip at forty-two,\nAnd sees his livelihood slipping from his grasp—\nAy, and his children's bread.\nGentleman John : Why, man alive,\nWho's baiting you ? This winded, broken cur,\nThat limps through life, to bait a bull like you !\nYou don't want pity, man ! The beaten bull,\nEven when the dogs are tearing at his gullet,"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1375, "texte": "Turns no eye up for pity. I myself,\nCrippled and hunched and twisted as I am,\nWould make a brave fend to stand up to you\nUntil you swallowed your words, if you should slobber\nYour pity over me. A bull! Nay, man,\nYou're nothing but a bear with a sore head.\nA bee has stung you—you who've lived on honey.\nSawdust, forsooth ! You've had the sweet of life:\nYou've munched the honeycomb till . . .\nMerry Andrew: Ay, talk's cheap.\nBut you've no children. You don't understand.\nGentleman John: I have no children: I don't understand!\nMerry Andrew: It's children make the difference.\nGentleman John : Man alive—\nAlive and kicking, though you're shamming dead—\nYou've hit the truth at last. It's that, just that,\nMakes all the difference. If you hadn't children,\nI'ld find it in my heart to pity you,\nGranted you'ld let me. I don't understand!\nI've seen you stripped. I've seen your children stripped.\nYou've never seen me naked; but you can guess\nThe misstitched, gnarled, and crooked thing I am.\nNow, do you understand ? I may have words.\nBut you, man, do you never burn with pride\nThat you've begotten those six limber bodies,\nFirm flesh, and supple sinew, and lithe limb—\nSix nimble lads, each like young Absalom,\nWith red blood running lively in his veins,\nBone of your bone, your very flesh and blood ?\nIt's you don't understand. God, what I'ld give"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1441, "texte": "This moment to be you, just as you are,\nPreposterous pantaloons and purple cats\nAnd painted leer and crimson curls and all,\nTo be you now, with only one missed hoop,\nIf I'd six clean-limbed children of my loins,\nBorn of the ecstasy of life within me,\nTo keep it quick and valiant in the ring\nWhen I . . . but I . . . Man, man, you've missed a hoop:\nBut they'll take every hoop like blooded colts:\nAnd 'twill be you in them that leaps through life,\nAnd in their children, and their children's children.\nGod! doesn't it make you hold your breath to think\nThere'll always be an Andrew in the ring,\nThe very spit and image of you stripped,\nWhile life's old circus lasts ? And I ... at least\nThere is no twisted thing of my begetting\nTo keep my shame alive: and that's the most\nThat I've to pride myself upon. But, God,\nI'm proud, ay, proud as Lucifer, of that.\nThink what it means, with all the urge and sting,\nWhen such a lust of life runs in the veins.\nYou, with your six sons, and your one missed hoop,\nPut that thought in your pipe, and smoke it. Well,\nAnd how d'you like the flavour ? Something bitter ?\nAnd burns the tongue a trifle ? That's the brand\nThat I must smoke while I've the breath to puff.\n{pause.)\nI've always worshipped the body, all my life—\nThe body quick with the perfect health which is beauty,\nIyively, lissom, alert, and taking its way\nThrough the world with the easy gait of the early Gods."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaav191408-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 29, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1521, "texte": "The only moments I've lived my life to the full\nAnd that live again in remembrance unfaded are those\nWhen I've seen life compact in some perfect body,\nThe living God made manifest in man:\nA diver in the Mediterranean, resting,\nWith sleeked black hair, and glistening salt-tanned skin,\nGripping the quivering gunwale with tense hands,\nHis torso lifted out of the peacock sea,\nI