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art thou Atlantic Monthly beauty Ben Bolt beneath bird bloom blow blue brave breast breath bright brow cardinal bird child cloud cold dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth evermore eyes face fair fear feet flame flowers glory glow golden grass grave gray green hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hills Joseph Rodman Drake Kingston Bridge kiss Kree land light lips live lonely look Lord lyre mighty moon morning neath never night o'er pass peace Poems Poenis poet rapture rose round sail shadows shine shore sigh silent sing skies sleep smile snow soft song sorrow soul sound spirit stars summer sweet tears tell tempest thee thine things thou art thought tree verse voice W. D. Howells wave weary wild wind wings wood York York City
Стр. 100 - By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die,...
Стр. 136 - And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore. I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
Стр. 122 - BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.
Стр. 54 - Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
Стр. 54 - rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
Стр. 91 - Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Стр. 221 - He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat: He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him; be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.
Стр. 53 - 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.
Стр. 158 - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.