Proceedings of the ... Council of Deliberation

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Pàgina 9 - Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set, but all — Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death...
Pàgina 24 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
Pàgina 9 - So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Pàgina 9 - There is no death ! What seems so is transition : This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.
Pàgina 57 - The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,
Pàgina 54 - ... one for the term of one year, one for the term of two years, and one for the term of three years ; and one member of said board shall be elected annually thereafter, who shall hold his office for three years.
Pàgina 28 - tis true: 'tis true, 'tis pity; And pity 'tis, 'tis true: a foolish figure ; But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then : and now remains, That we find out the cause of this effect ; Or, rather say, the cause of this defect; For this effect, defective, comes by cause: Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Pàgina 7 - I wonder what day of the week, I wonder what month of the year — Will it be midnight, or morning, And who will bend over my bier ? ... — What a hideous fancy to come As I wait at the foot of the stair, While Lilian gives the last touch To her robe, or the rose in her hair.
Pàgina 7 - Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

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