Alton Locke

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Page 192 - Dee.' They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea ; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o
Page 306 - Thou art, of what sort the eternal life of the saints was to be, which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive.
Page 21 - A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay, And o'er-informed the tenement of clay...
Page 236 - If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
Page 192 - The Western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land; And never home came she.
Page 252 - Out among the eternities an' the realities — it's no that dreary outlook, after a', to find truth an' fact — naught but truth an' fact — e'en beside the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched ! " " God forbid !
Page 280 - THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro...
Page 143 - I have seen all the works that are done under the sun ; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. That which is crooked cannot be made straight ; and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.
Page 281 - While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!
Page 257 - Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful son^ Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong. Like a tale of little meaning tho...

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