Queenie's Whim: A Novel

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Macmillan, 1901 - 477 pages
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Page 293 - Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul; Which long for death, but it cometh not ; and dig for it more than for hid treasures; Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave?
Page 286 - While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept: for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.
Page 190 - I would not have the restless will That hurries to and fro, Seeking for some great thing to do, Or secret thing to know ; I would be treated as a child, And guided where I go.
Page 155 - The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves ; a road To bring us, daily, nearer God.
Page 119 - My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies.
Page 83 - But, go to ! thy love Shall chant itself its own beatitudes, After its own life-working. A child's kiss Set on thy sighing lips, shall make thee glad : A poor man served by thee, shall make thee rich ; A sick man, helped by thee, shall make thee strong ; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service which thou renderest.
Page 201 - Calm in the hour of buoyant health, Calm in my hour of pain ; Calm in my poverty or wealth, Calm in my loss or gain.
Page 89 - If we were to form an image of dignity in a man, we should give him wisdom and valour, as being essential to the character of manhood. In like manner, if you describe a right woman in a laudable sense, she should have gentle softness, tender fear, and all those parts of life which distinguish her from the other sex ; with some subordination to it, but such an inferiority that makes her still more lovely.
Page 68 - Speak gently to the aged one, — Grieve not the care-worn heart; The sands of life are nearly run: Let such in peace depart.
Page 234 - By night we linger'd on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o'er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd; The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn.

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