Infelicia

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H.L. Williams, 1868 - American poetry - 141 pages
 

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Page 81 - Rise up, brave hearts! \• The sentry cries : " All's well!" from Hope's tower! Fling out your banners of Right! The watch fire grows brighter! \ \ All's well! All's well! Courage! Courage! The Lord of Hosts is in the field, The God of Jacob is our shield! WHERE THE FLOCKS SHALL BE LED.
Page 125 - Is there not a gleam of Peace on all this tiresome earth ? Does not one oasis cheer all this desert-world ? When will all this toil and pain bring me the blessing ? Must I ever plead for help to do the work before me set? Must I ever stumble and faint by the dark wayside
Page 128 - is the promise of my years ; / Once written on my brow ? Ere errors, agonies and fears Brought with them all that speaks in tears, Ere I had sunk beneath my peers ; Where sleeps that promise now
Page 68 - folded up In His, as shuts when day is done, Upon the elf the blossom's cup. On many an hour like this we met, And as my lips did fondly greet her, I blessed her as love's amulet: Earth hath no treasure, dearer, sweeter. The stars that look upon the hill, And beckon from their homes at night,
Page 37 - Now I gloss my pale face with laughter, and sail my voice on with the tide. Decked in jewels and lace, I laugh beneath the gaslight's glare, and quaff the purple wine. But the minor-keyed soul is standing naked and hungry upon one of Heaven's high
Page 5 - heads, and your gleaming eyes, and your hissing tongues with the dust. My garments shall bear no mark of ye. When I shall return this sword to the angel, your foul blood will not stain its edge. It will glimmer with the light of truth, and the strong arm shall rest.
Page 2 - that pale, Blue mist, that hangs so low in air, like Hope That has abandoned earth, yet reacheth Not the stars in their proud homes ? A dying eagle, striving to reach the sun ? A little child talking to the gay clouds as they
Page 98 - I am sick of what I am. Of all Which I in life can ever hope to be. Angels of light be pitiful to me." '"THE cold chain of life presseth heavily on me tonight. The thundering pace of thought is curbed, and, like a fiery steed, dasheth against the gloomy walls of my prisoned soul.
Page 10 - Winds that have sainted her, tell ye the story Of the young life by the needle that bled ; Making its bridge over Death's soundless waters Out of a swaying and soul-cutting thread. Over it going, All the world knowing! Thousands have trod it, foot-bleeding, before ! God protect all of us— God shelter all of us, Should she look back from the Opposite Shore