Flaxius: Leaves from the Life of an Immortal (Google eBook)

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P. Wellby, 1902 - 320 pages
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Page 234 - And he lifted up his face to the window, and said, Who is on my side ? who ? And there looked out to him two or three eunuchs.
Page 28 - What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it...
Page 239 - I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move.
Page 1 - There is no policy like politeness: and a good manner is the best thing in the world, either to get one a good name or to supply the want of it.
Page 257 - THERE is a Thorn it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years...
Page 186 - With that new blissful golden melody. A living death was in each gush of sounds, Each family of rapturous hurried notes, That fell, one after one, yet all at once, Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string: And then another, then another strain...
Page 106 - Wrath and threatening are invariably mingled with the love; and in the utmost solitudes of nature, the existence of Hell seems to me as legibly declared by a thousand spiritual utterances, as that of Heaven.
Page 26 - It is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die.
Page 111 - Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
Page 181 - Or is it that imagination brought Beyond its proper bound, yet still confined, Lost in a sort of purgatory blind, Cannot refer to any standard law Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw In happiness, to see beyond our bourne It forces us in summer skies to mourn; It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

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