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Poems about Mythology
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HROTHGAR answered, helmet of Scyldings: --
"I knew him of yore in his youthful days;
Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings,
leader beloved, and long he ruled
That she forcèd not his harmes
Her bewtye's power to prove.
Of Brutus' blood, in Brittaine borne, King Arthur I am to name;
'Twas in that mellow season of the year When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves
Wreathe in a garland the corn's golden ear!
Supreme with night, what high mysteriarch—
The undreamt-of god beyond the trinal noon
ONCE upon a time rare flowers grew On every shrub and bush we used to see;
The song of Tigilau the brave,
Sina's wild lover,
A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor, Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
By the glow-worm's lamp in the dewy brake;
By the gossamer's airy net;
Sequins, their shadings, spark Atlantis lost where morning bloom falters. Out and away
AND the lord of earls, to each that came
with Beowulf over the briny ways,
Farewell we call to hearth and hall!
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
Mor truan genhyf mor truan.
Aderyv. am keduyv a chaduan.
SCENE, the Desert TIME, Mid-day
10 In silent horror o'er the desert-waste
THEN hastened those heroes their home to see,
friendless, to find the Frisian land,
Night! the horrible wizard Night!
The dumb and terrible Night
Phoebus Apollo, from Olympus driven, Lived at Admetus, tending herds and flocks:
The sun, awakening, through the smoky air Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,
It is upon the Sabbath-day, at rising of the sun, That to Glenmore's black forest-side a Shepherdess hath gone,
To him the stateliest spake in answer;
the warriors' leader his word-hoard unlocked: --
Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet: --
"For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf,
O camp of flowers, with poplars girdled round,
Gray guardians of life's soft and purple bud!
FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CURIUS
Many are my names in many countries,
Mithrandir among the Elves,
She lived beside the edge of a sweep of heather
In a lone cot by the rill,
How gracefully, O man, with thy palm-bough,
Upon the waning century standest thou,
When evening in the Shire was grey
his footsteps on the Hill were heard;
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