Lavender and Other Verse

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P. Elder, 1910 - California - 129 pages
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Page 8 - O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Page 83 - Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
Page 4 - ... Francisco in October, 1906; and now the vessel has been given to that City for preservation in Golden Gate Park. At last I rest in peace where nevermore The waves shall whip my stout-resisting side; Ignobly rest, and swell with bitter pride As casual eyes all lightly scan me o'er — Me, that have dared the Arctic's awful shore, And with the bold Norwegian as my guide Sailed the dread Pass to other keels denied, Where we shall dwell with Fame forevermore. Ah, it is pleasant here with birds and...
Page 1 - Freighted with sorrow, heavy with woe;—- But these shapes that cluster, dark and low, To-morrow shall be all a-glow! In the blaze of the coming morn these mists, Whose weight my heart in vain resists, Will brighten, and shine, and soar to heaven, In thin white robes, like souls forgiven; For Heaven...
Page 96 - And when among the lindens steals thy mystery, Such flickering, radiant discs we see, To walk thereon we dare not try. The varnished jug becomes enameled at thy call, The flapping dishcloth seems a flag of glory's brood, The haycock, thanks to thee, wears gold that crowns it all, And so the hive — its sister small — Flaunts golden splendor on its hood. Let meadows give thee hail, and hail each fruited vine! Blest be thou mid the grass, and at the friendly door! Touch the swan's wing and in the...
Page 95 - Enters the hut and blossom with divine desire, All disparate and yet entire, Even as mother-love can do. To thee I sing ! — To crown me as thy priest, oh, deign, Thou who the washtub lightest with its suds of blue, And who on disappearing oft art fondly fain Against the humble window pane To dart thy lances
Page 95 - Chantecler," where the poet, seeing everything through the eyes of the imagination, transmutes the commonest things into the gold of poetry. I have ventured on a translation of this Hymn which, as pertinent to the subject in hand, I beg the indulgence of the reader to give in full. Thee, who to dry the tears of every blade dost please, Who butterflies...
Page 83 - Fate dared not tempt him further to be blest. Her beauteous leaves of cedar, oak and pine, She lavish gave for garlands to entwine His coffin fashioned from her...

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