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Page 287 - All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil : Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands...
Page 272 - Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives.
Page 287 - Knowledge never learned of schools: Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl, and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young. How the oriole's nest is hung...
Page 494 - I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.
Page 422 - Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone: But when she got there The cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.
Page 223 - SUMMER is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,' Yes, my wild little Poet. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. ' New, new, new, new ! ' Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? ' Love again, song again, nest again, young again,' Never a prophet so crazy ! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy.
Page 49 - The railroad rate of one and one-third fare for the round trip, on the certificate plan...
Page 184 - IT is not raining rain for me, It's raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills. The clouds of gray engulf the day And overwhelm the town; It is not raining rain to me, It's raining roses down.
Page 204 - In marble walls as white as milk, Lined with a skin as soft as silk, Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.