Ethical Addresses and Ethical Record, Volum 14

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Ethical Addresses, 1907
 

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Pàgina 1 - He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
Pàgina 23 - There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh!
Pàgina 1 - Man is his own star; and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man, Commands all light, all influence, all fate; Nothing to him falls early or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
Pàgina 8 - But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired...
Pàgina 24 - IF I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face ; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not ; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain : — Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake...
Pàgina 29 - For right is right, since God is God, And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin.
Pàgina 20 - To HIM who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language : for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Pàgina 13 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest - but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Pàgina 34 - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

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