Kerhonah ; The Vernal Walk ; Win Hill: And Other Poems

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Benjamin Steill, 1835 - 297 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 128 - Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake ! So put thou forth thy small white rose ; I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou needst not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers ; For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are...
Pàgina 76 - Tis mute as death ! — but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone ! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone ! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high.
Pàgina 129 - mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn flower is dead ; The violet by the moss'd...
Pàgina 158 - From plunder'd labour's store, A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare — Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are.
Pàgina 106 - God of earth and heaven ! The humble heart is praying! How softly in the pauses Of song re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide ! With evil deeds of evil men...
Pàgina 55 - He smiled, he sighed, he past away : His life was but an April day, — He loved and died ! My mother smiles, then turns away, But turns away to weep : They whisper round me — what they say I need not hear, for in the clay I soon must sleep.
Pàgina 75 - Light ! minutely fair, Divinely plain and clear, Like splinters of a crystal hair, Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, Is Huron, girt with wood ; This driplet feeds Missouri's tide— And that Niagara's flood. What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light...
Pàgina 54 - Smiles on the well in summer cold, And daisied sod. But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, And flowers in winter blow, To tell me that the worm makes room For me, her brother, in the tomb, And thinks me slow. For as the rainbow of the dawn...
Pàgina 55 - I bloomed ; and was I born To die as soon ? " To love my mother and to die — To perish in my bloom ! Is this my sad brief history 1 — A tear dropped from a mother's eye Into the tomb.
Pàgina 86 - ... Of the rich sky ! Their gods are bonds and blows. Rocks, and blind shipwreck ; and they hate the stream That leaves them still behind, and mocks their changeless dream. They know ye not, ye flowers that welcome me, Thus glad to meet, by trouble parted long ! They never saw ye — never may they see Your dewy...

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