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Page 301 - And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: " Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God." And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvellous tale.
Page 150 - One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all. One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach.
Page 30 - Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated, — not a prince, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun.
Page 237 - When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, That earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime My being fills with rapture, — waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine: Within my bosom glows unearthly fire Lit by no skill of mine.
Page 219 - To elevate the character and advance the interests of the profession of teaching and to promote the cause of popular education in the United States.
Page 270 - All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair. And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home.
Page 306 - I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me.
Page 270 - Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! Heap high the golden corn ! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn ! Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine ; We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.