Werner's Magazine: A Magazine of Expression, Volum 26

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Werner's Magazine Company, 1901
 

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Pàgina 4 - 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 14 - Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them.
Pàgina 303 - I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain...
Pàgina 360 - Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me. And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.
Pàgina 13 - So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.
Pàgina 12 - Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure?
Pàgina 360 - For I was a hungered, and ye gave me meat : I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink : I was a stranger, and ye took me in: 36 Naked, and ye clothed me : I was sick, and ye visited me : I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
Pàgina 9 - The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty ; and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
Pàgina 11 - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
Pàgina 6 - To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon.

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