Broken Away

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J. Lane, 1897 - 295 pages
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Page 57 - Shine ! shine ! shine ! Pour down your warmth, great sun ! While we bask, we two together. Two together ! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, > Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together.
Page 295 - Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone: KINDNESS in another's trouble, COURAGE in your own.
Page 293 - COME not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest : Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest.
Page 243 - We love, we droop, we die! Ah ! wherefore do we laugh , or weep ? Why do we live, or die? Who knows that secret deep? — Alas, not I! Why doth the violet spring Unseen by human eye? Why do the radiant seasons bring Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? Why do our fond hearts cling To things that die? We toil — through pain and wrong; We fight, and fly; We love , we lose — and then , ere long, Stone-dead we lie. O life ! is all thy song "Endure and — die?
Page 44 - WHY should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has will'd, we die,* Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh...
Page 132 - La vie est breve: un peu d'espoir, un peu de reve . . . et puis, bonsoir!
Page 146 - Oh, love for a year, a week, a day, But alas for the love that lasts alway...
Page 196 - I'd locked my heart in a cold kist And preened it wi' a silver pree. 4. Oh, willy, wally, but love is bonnie A little while when it is new, But it grows old and waxes cold, And fades away like morning dew.
Page 132 - La vie est vaine, Un pen d'amour, Un pen de haine, Et pnis — bonjour ! " ' La vie est breve, Un peu d'espoir, Un peu de reve, Et puis — bonsoir ! ' " " That 's what I call a whining song," declared Stuart, rather scornfully.

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