THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. THE CATHEDRAL. FAVORITE POEMS.

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Seite 19 - And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers...
Seite 68 - Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, In whatso we share with another's need...
Seite 22 - Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green. We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell, We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing. The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near. That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing.
Seite 23 - ... skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by: And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Seite 61 - I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side : Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; Behold, through him, I give to Thee !
Seite 32 - Then think I of deep shadows on the grass; Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways; Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind; of waters blue, That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap; and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
Seite 31 - Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
Seite 13 - OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list. And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay : Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.
Seite 20 - And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives...
Seite 48 - An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wai ... no ... I come dasignin' "— "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.

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