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Page 278 - MAN, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
Page 39 - MUSIC WHEN whispering strains do softly steal With creeping passion through the heart, And when at every touch we feel Our pulses beat and bear a part; When threads can make A heartstring shake, Philosophy Can scarce deny The soul consists of harmony.
Page 142 - tis all we want, — the end of all our wishes and pursuits : give us a prospect of this, we take the wings of the morning, and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth...
Page 275 - And the outline of the whole, As round eve's shades their framework roll, Grandly fronts for once thy soul. And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam Of yet another morning breaks, And like the hand which ends a dream, Death, with the might of his sunbeam, Touches the flesh and the soul awakes, Then...
Page 202 - The river went weeping, weeping ! Ah me ! how it did weep ! But I would never heed it, The weeping of the river, Whilst thou wert at my breast. The stars, poor stars, were weeping, But I would not hear their weeping, Whilst yet I heard thy voice.
Page 28 - And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath. And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble. As his sword strikes men to death.
Page 157 - WE, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampened air, When all our good seems bound in sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare. Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go ; At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow. But each day brings less summer cheer, Crimps more our ineffectual spring, And something earlier every...