Poetry and Prose

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A. Tompkins, 1852 - 440 Seiten

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Seite 81 - In those fall'n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead. And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love's dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro' wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell.
Seite 223 - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
Seite 19 - How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour's communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all.
Seite 95 - O that I had wings like a dove : for then would I flee away, and be at rest.
Seite 81 - So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touched me from the past, And all at once it seemed at last His living soul was flashed on mine...
Seite 33 - A great deal of talent is lost in the world for the want of a little courage. Every day sends to their graves a number of obscure men who have only remained in obscurity because their timidity has prevented them from making a first effort ; and who, if they could have been induced to begin, would in all probability have gone great lengths in the career of fame.
Seite 30 - But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing...
Seite 60 - Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing, The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story ; An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She...
Seite 87 - At peril of his life — who shed great thoughts As easily as an oak looseneth its golden leaves In a kindly largess to the soil it grew on — Whose rich dark ivy thoughts, sunned o'er with love, Flourish around the deathless stems of their names — Whose names are ever on the world's broad tongue, Like sound upon the falling of a force — Whose words, if winged, are with angels...
Seite 404 - And mony a canty day, John, We 've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we '11 go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

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