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Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett Dunsany
Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron of Dunsany, was an Irish writer born on July 24, 1878, and is best known for his pioneering work in fantasy literature. His extensive body of work includes over 90 books, encompassing novels, short stories, plays, and essays, with notable titles such as "The Gods of Pegāna" and "The King of Elfland's Daughter." Dunsany's imaginative storytelling and richly crafted mythologies have had a profound influence on later fantasy writers, including H.P. Lovecraft and J.R.R. Tolkien.
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A Dirge Of Victory (Sonnet) Lift not thy trumpet, Victory, to the sky, Nor through battalions nor by batteries blow, But over hollows full of old wire go,Where among dregs of war the long-dead lieWith wasted iron that the guns passed by. When they went eastwards like a tide at flow; There blow thy trumpet that the dead may know,Who waited for thy coming, Victory. It is not we that have...
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POLTARNEES, BEHOLDER OF OCEAN Toldees, Mondath, Arizim, these are the Inner Lands, the lands whose sentinels upon their borders do not behold the sea. Beyond them to the east there lies a desert, for ever untroubled by man: all yellow it is, and spotted with shadows of stones, and Death is in it, like a leopard lying in the sun. To the south they are bounded by magic, to the west by a mountain, and to...
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Being convinced that his end was nearly come, and having lived long on earth (and all those years in Spain, in the golden time), the Lord of the Valleys of Arguento Harez, whose heights see not Valladolid, called for his eldest son. And so he addressed him when he was come to his chamber, dim with its strange red hangings and august with the splendour of Spain: "O eldest son of mine, your younger...
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ACT I SCENE 1 A small railway station near London. Time: Ten years ago. BERT'Ow goes it, Bill? BILLGoes it? 'Ow d'yer think it goes? BERTI don't know, Bill. 'Ow is it? BILLBloody. BERTWhy? What's wrong? BILLWrong? Nothing ain't wrong. BERTWhat's up then? BILLNothing ain't right. BERTWhy, wot's the worry? BILLWot's the worry? They don't give...
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Act I Time: About the time of the decadence in Babylon. Scene: The jungle city of Thek in the reign of King Karnos. Tharmia: You know that my lineage is almost divine. Arolind: My father's sword was so terrible that he had to hide it with a cloak. Tharmia: He probably did that because there were no jewels in the scabbard. Arolind: There were emeralds in it that outstared the sea. * * * * * * * *...
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PREFACE Believing plays to be solely for the stage, I have never before allowed any of mine to be printed until they had first faced from a stage the judgment of an audience, to see if they were entitled to be called plays at all. A successful production also has been sometimes a moral support to me when some critic has said, as for instance of "A Night at an Inn," that though it reads passably...
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The Sword of Welleran Where the great plain of Tarphet runs up, as the sea in estuaries, among the Cyresian mountains, there stood long since the city of Merimna well-nigh among the shadows of the crags. I have never seen a city in the world so beautiful as Merimna seemed to me when first I dreamed of it. It was a marvel of spires and figures of bronze, and marble fountains, and trophies of fabulous...
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INTRODUCTION I Lady Wilde once told me that when she was a young girl she was stopped in some Dublin street by a great crowd and turned into a shop to escape from it. She stayed there some time and the crowd still passed. She asked the shopman what it was, and he said, 'the funeral of Thomas Davis, a poet.' She had never heard of Davis; but because she thought a country that so honoured a...
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TIME AND THE GODS Once when the gods were young and only Their swarthy servant Time was without age, the gods lay sleeping by a broad river upon earth. There in a valley that from all the earth the gods had set apart for Their repose the gods dreamed marble dreams. And with domes and pinnacles the dreams arose and stood up proudly between the river and the sky, all shimmering white to the morning. In...
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A Tale of London "Come," said the Sultan to his hasheesh-eater in the very furthest lands that know Bagdad, "dream to me now of London." And the hasheesh-eater made a low obeisance and seated himself cross-legged upon a purple cushion broidered with golden poppies, on the floor, beside an ivory bowl where the hasheesh was, and having eaten liberally of the hasheesh blinked seven times...
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