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Page 192 - RECONCILIATION WORD over all, beautiful as the sky, Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost, That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world; For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin — I draw near, Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.
Page 192 - O Captain! My Captain! O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain!
Page 192 - O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills ; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding. For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning/ Here Captain ! dear father ! This arm beneath your head ; It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.
Page 215 - He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal, The past unsighed for, and the future sure...
Page 63 - The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be dust, Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly ? She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : Give her the wages of going on, and not to die.
Page 63 - My father held his hand upon his face ; I, blinded with my tears, " Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die. " The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore ; The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat ; Touch'd; and I knew no more.
Page 220 - The greatest poet has less a marked style and is more the channel of thoughts and things without increase or diminution and is the free channel of himself. He swears to his art — I will not be meddlesome, I will not have in my writing any elegance, or effect, or originality, to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains. I will have nothing hang in the way, not the richest curtains.
Page 191 - Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you my dear comrade? Then to the second I step— and who are you my child and darling? Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third— a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man I think I know you— I think this face is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.
Page 220 - I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough, None has ever yet adored or worship'd half enough, None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the future is. I say that the real and permanent grandeur...