Poems

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Roberts brothers, 1865 - 239 pages
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Page 186 - EPITAPH Below lies one whose name was traced in sand — He died, not knowing what it was to live : Died while the first sweet consciousness of manhood And maiden thought electrified his soul: Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. Bewildered reader, pass without a sigh In a proud sorrow ! There is life with God, In other kingdom of a sweeter air; In Eden every flower is blown. Amen.
Page 160 - Rather a piece of childhood thrown away; An adumbration faint; the overture To stifled music; year that ends in May; The sweet beginning of a tale unknown; A dream unspoken; promise unfulfilled; A morning with no noon, a rose unblown, — All its deep rich vermilion crushed and killed I' th' bud by frost: — Thus in false fear I cried, Forgetting that to abolish death Christ died.
Page 185 - THOU of purer eyes than to behold Uncleanness ! sift my soul, removing all Strange thoughts, imaginings fantastical, Iniquitous allurements manifold. Make it a spiritual ark ; abode Severely sacred, perfumed, sanctified, Wherein the Prince of Purities may abide, — The holy and eternal Spirit of God. The gross, adhesive loathsomeness of sin, Give me to see. Yet, O far more, far more, That beautiful purity which the saints adore In a consummate Paradise within The Veil, — O Lord, upon my soul bestow,...
Page 214 - Ah me ! I never thought that she Would brave a night like this, While I sat weaving by the fire A web of fantasies. How the winds beat this home of ours With arrow-falls of rain ; This lonely home upon the hill They beat with might and main. And 'mid the tempest one lone heart Anticipates the glow, Whence, all her weary journey done, Shall happy welcome flow.
Page 166 - Through the cool, yellow, mellow twilight glooms, The thrush's song enchants the captive ear; Now, while a shower is pleasant in the falling, Stirring the still perfume that wakes around; Now, that doves mourn, and from the distance calling, • The cuckoo answers, with a sovereign sound, — Come, with thy native heart, O true and tried! But leave all books ; for what with converse high, Flavoured with Attic wit, the time shall glide On smoothly, as a river floweth by, Or as on stately pinion, through...
Page 212 - Tis nearly ten ! A fearful night, Without a single star To light the shadow on her soul With sparkle from afar: The moon is canopied with clouds, And her burden it is sore ; — What would wee Jackie do, if he Should never see her more...
Page 99 - God, once more before I die, Before blind darkness and the wormy grave Contain me, and my memory fades away Like a sweet-colored evening, slowly, sad — Once more, O God, thy wonders take my soul. A winter day ! the feather-silent snow , Thickens the air with strange delight, and lays A fairy carpet on the barren lea. No sun, yet all around that inward light Which is in purity, — a soft moonshine, The silvery dimness of a happy dream.
Page 35 - What brought me here ? God knows, for I don't. Alone in such a place is a horrible thing. . . . People don't seem to understand me. . . . Westminster Abbey ; I was there all day yesterday. If I live I shall be buried there — so help me God ! A completely defined consciousness of great poetical genius is my only antidote against utter despair and despicable failure.
Page 212 - s past the bridge, Where Luggie moans beneath ; While rain-drops clash in planted lines On rivulet and heath. Disease hath laid his palsied palm Upon my aching brow ; The headlong blood of twenty-one Is thin and sluggish now.

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