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Yale University Press, 1915 - American poetry - 146 pages
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Page 131 - A new fixed form: Seven lines, in any rhythm, isometric and of not more than four feet; Riming AbacbcA, the first line and the last a Refrain; the Idea (as the name suggests') to Turn upon the recurrence of the Refrain at the end with a different sense from that which it bears at the beginning.
Page 77 - through many wanderings The Fairyland of her realities. She hides herself behind a busy brain: A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood, A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood,— Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamour of remembered rain Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.
Page 134 - MISERERE Ah, God, my strength again!— Not power nor joy, but these: The waking without pain, The ardour for the task, And in the evening, peace. Is it so much to ask? Ah, God, my strength again
Page 92 - We in whose work thy gifts avail, High in our hearts enshrined enthrone thee, Mother of Men—Old Yale! Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging, Under whose feet the years are cast; Queen of an ageless empire, ranging Over the future and the past— Thee, whom our fathers loved before us, Thee, whom our sons unborn shall hail, Praise we to-day in sturdy chorus, Mother of Men—Old Yale!
Page 3 - O sweet, sweet, sweet! You are the proof of all That over-truth our dreams have memory of That day cannot recall: Work without weariness, and tearless love, And taintless laughter. While we run To measure dust, and sounding names are hurled Into the nothingness of days unborn, You hold your little hearts up to the sun, Quietly beautiful amid our scorn— God's answer to the wisdom of this world.
Page 70 - Now gently sinks the long sweet Summer day In blossom-breathing dimness. The sharp wings Of chattering swallows touch with mystic rings The shadowy pool. The last wide Western ray Glows tawny-crimson. And from far away, Each breeze that stirs the timorous poplar brings The moan of herds, the call of feathered things, The
Page 28 - ENVOI Princes of Mirth! Let no power disarray The pageants and fair trappings of our play, Until we turn our faces to the wall, Smile down the glimmering slopes of yesterday, And bid at last a long farewell to all.
Page 148 - THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY RBFERENCB DEPARTMENT This book is under no circumstances
Page 102 - OFFERINGS If I could sing as no man ever sang— Find the red heart of that unspoken lore That all sweet sound is only hunger for,— If I might call the moonlight on the sea, The river-lily's dream, the soul of dew, To lead the voices of my harmony, I should have songs,
Page 7 - And yet . . . What a foolish waste there will be of beauty When he finds the one conventional child for him, (With an untaught voice, and elbows youthfully slim) Who follows him stupidly down the path of duty, So blind with her own new glory that his grows dim!

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