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Neale Publishing Company, 1901 - 47 pages
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Page 51 - This book should be returned ti the Library on or before the last dat stamped below.
Page 13 - Tis written in the book of fate That each must follow his own star, And all must wait. Mother, in thine a mother's hand Is clasped to-day across the years. In the great hand of God we stand, And smile through tears.
Page 27 - ... into the deep Whose long, long moment hurrieth after Light ; An arrow perilously poised for flight The grieved hand, constraining, scarce may keep ; A whirlpool dallying in its central sleep Ere yet the tangent tides fling forth their might. Upgathered forces, lost to sound and sight, Where'er ye are, your prisonment I weep. In glory as of myriad falling stars, Loosed be the sextet from all bonds and bars, Primordial Impulse greatened through control. Thee will I worship in thy straightmost laws,...
Page 21 - Creatures of clay he takes and wind swept leaves That fall about his feet. He breathes thereon the breath of life, nor grieves When, fearlessly and fleet, They pass beyond him, faring to their kind. Yea, these, who are his own Yet are not freely his, he will not bind, But lives and dies alone.
Page 9 - ... voice, a voice is calling through the night. Some being calls ! Our fathers judged aright Who peopled sound of wave and song of wind With multitudinous things of spirit kind. Some being calls! Some being hides within The magic tuning of the violin, The glad rejoicing of the golden horn, The...
Page 27 - THE Octet is a dive into the deep Whose long, long moment hurrieth after Light ; An arrow perilously poised for flight The grieved hand, constraining, scarce may keep ; A whirlpool dallying in its central sleep Ere yet the tangent tides fling forth their might. Upgathered forces, lost to sound and sight, Where'er ye are, your prisonment I weep. In glory as of myriad falling stars, Loosed be the sextet from all bonds and bars, Primordial Impulse greatened through control. Thee will I worship in thy...
Page 9 - The hautbois mournful as a ghost forlorn, The cymbal's sweep that mocks a wild typhoon, The gentle flute, the harp, the deep bassoon. Some being calls! and they, the called, are blest Who yield their lives unto a fruitless quest, Who still pursuing have not cried '

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