Younger American Poets, 1830-1890 (Google eBook)

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Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen, Goodridge Bliss Roberts
Griffith, Farran, Okeden & Welsh, 1891 - American poetry - 666 pages
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Page 107 - No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool: The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
Page 654 - Therefore if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian ; and he that speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me.
Page 138 - So: Affable live-oak, leaning low, Thus with your favor soft, with a reverent hand, (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand On the firm-packed sand, Free By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea.
Page 78 - tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages Furl its folds though now we must.
Page 141 - But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton " 1425 Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main.
Page 139 - Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high ? The world lies east : how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky ! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main.
Page 78 - tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.
Page 83 - The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of
Page 137 - And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream...
Page 107 - These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say Who knows how grandly it had rung!

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