An Old Fly Book and Other Stuff

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R.S.Peck, 1912 - American poetry - 154 pages
 

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Page 67 - They say this country, way down here Is full of precious gold, Its mountains filled with silver, And with countless wealth untold. But I know another country, And my heart with longing fills, Where the gold is in the sunset Upon its purple hills. Where the silver's in...
Page 69 - ... dearest faces in it That a lonely man e'er knew, And a sweet face in the choir, And a hand I long to press, Oh, God! to hold her close again As when she whispered 'Yes.' "Oh, I look out o'er the sedgebrush, As I stretch my yearning hand O'er the long, unbroken reaches Of the desert's burning sand, To a land where brooks are honest When your lips are parched and dry, Not the Canyon's clear, deceptive streams Of tasteless alkali. New England has no mountains Full of wealth and mines and drills,...
Page 70 - To a land where brooks are honest When your lips are parched and dry, Not the canyon's clear, deceptive streams Of tasteless alkali. New England has no mountains Full of wealth and mines and drills, But I'd give this whole damn'd country For one sight of its green hills. I am down in Arizona, And I'm told I've got to stay Till the Angel Gabriel blows his trump Out on the Judgment Day. I've been here three years already, And the white plague's held in check, And my broncho and the pale horse Are going...
Page 125 - Long the old familiar ways, Laughing at the drowsy bee Waken'd by your sorcery, With his love-songs humming over Yon late bit of faded clover, — (Mean of you to treat him so !) Just as if we didn't know You are Summer, come again Over field and wood and fen ; Come into the hearts of men, Who, despite those half-veiled eyes Quickly pierce the thin disguise And enrapt by such rare charms Welcome thee with open arms — Little witch, with face all smiling — Captive to your soft beguiling! Song of...
Page 67 - The Exile," written by John Warren Harper, a tubercular patient away from home. "THE EXILE." "I am down in Arizona, On its cactus-covered plains, The White Plague's on my hollow cheeks, Its fever in my veins. I am down upon the desert, "Tis a God-forsaken land, Where you fight with odds against you, When you've taken your last stand; Where you live out in the open, 'Mong the sedgebrush and mequite, With a rattler for a neighbor Not the friendliest to meet.
Page 69 - Tis the dear old homeland feast, And like a Moslem way clown here, My prayers are toward the East. The neighbors that I knew. so well, I seem to see them still, Are winding in procession To the white church on the hill. There's the greeting at the doorway, There's the dear old family pew, And the dearest faces in it, That a lonely man e'er knew, And a sweet face in the choir, And a hand I long to press, Oh God! to hold her close again, As when she whispered — "Yes.
Page 69 - Tis Thanksgiving in New England, 'Tis the dear old homeland feast, And like a Moslem way down here, My prayers are toward the East. The neighbors that I knew so well, I seem to see them still, Are winding in procession To the white church on the hill. There's the greeting at the doorway, There's the dear...
Page 63 - he is old." He never took a vacation, and at sixty they read his will. His day for "retiring from business" Death wrote in a codicil; And pinn'd on the door of his office Was a notice which grimly read, "Out of town — on a long vacation Indefinite
Page 152 - long the shining pass, The sunset's glow o'er its crests of snow Is its windows of stained glass. Oh, man of sin, wouldst thou enter in, Wouldst thou kneel at its glittering shrine, Where the ice bound trail is the chancel rail Far above the last, lone pine?
Page 153 - ... glittering shrine? Where the ice-bound trail is the chancel rail Far above the last, lone pine? Where the twilight falls on its opal w:alls, And the lights of the night are hung, Where its altar gleams in the starlight beams And its censer, the moon, is swung? Where the silence speaks and the snow-clad peaks, With their glow of splendid stars, Are the candlesticks, and its crucifix Is the North light's shimmering bars?

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