In Memoriam

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1896 - 206 pages
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Page 193 - Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion...
Page 37 - HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.
Page 10 - A hand that can be clasp'd no more, — Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here ; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.
Page 121 - Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove...
Page 202 - THOU wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled ; Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead.
Page 1 - STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove...
Page 156 - I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less. My love involves the love before ; My love is vaster passion now ; Tho' mixt with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more.
Page 87 - The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind.
Page 180 - I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
Page 62 - That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. ' So careful of the type ? ' but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ' A thousand types are gone : I care for nothing, all shall go.

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