- Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor...
It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses " (U2.61)
From John Milton's poem 'Lycidas, a Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637' lines 165ff:
'Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:'
The library of Sainte-Geneviève is located near the Pantheon on the Mont Sainte-Geneviève in Paris (5e). It is one of the oldest libraries in the world, founded in the 5c. The current building was erected 1844-1851. Geneviève is one of the patron saints of Paris.
- Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Through the dear might...
- Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.
- What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine." (U2.77)
From Milton's 'Lycidas', lines 172ff:
'So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves
Where other groves, and other streams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, 175
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love."
Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
My father gave me seeds to sow." (U2.85)
The cock crew,
The sky was blue:
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
'Tis time for this poor soul
To go to heaven.
What is that?
- What, sir?
- Again, sir. We didn't hear." (U2.101)
- What is it, sir? We give it up.
Stephen, his throat itching, answered:
- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush." (U2.111)
A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:
They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues." (U1.116)
Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony, sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned." (U2.165)
- It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.
- Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.
He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench.
- You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form.
- Yes, sir.
In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.
- Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you." (U2.173)
- Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.
- Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here.
And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly:
- What is the matter? What is it now?
Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head." (U2.189)