Bitter-sweet: A PoemScribner, Armstrong & Company, 1873 - 220 strani |
Druge izdaje - Prikaži vse
Pogosti izrazi in povedi
angels arms beautiful blasphemy bless Blue Beard bosom breast breath brine brow chastened Christ cider crown DAVID dear death door dream Dreamland durance e'en ears earth EDWARD evermore evil evil live eyes face faith faithless Fatima fear feet fell flame forgive friends gathered girl give God's golden hour GRACE hand happy head heart Heaven husband Hush ISRAEL Jesus kiss knew light lips live LOCALITY-The look Lord MARY never night Old tunes pain pale PATIENCE pity poplar prayed prayer precious PRUDENCE quick REBEKAH roar RUTH Save secret shame sighs sleep sleet smile song sophistries sorrow Sotto voce soul speak stairs stood storm story strange sweet sweet spring talk tears tell temptation thee thing thou thought throb throne toil toss truth truth's credentials Twas twixt utterance vision wait weak wedded wife wild woman wonder words
Priljubljeni odlomki
Stran 27 - Who can tell what a baby thinks ? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day...
Stran 71 - SIXTEEN barrels of cider Ripening all in a row; Open the vent-channels wider! See the froth, drifted like snow, Blown by the tempest below! Those delectable juices Flowed through the sinuous sluices Of sweet springs under the orchard; Climbed into fountains that chained them, Dripped into cups that retained them, And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them.
Stran 28 - ... of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds,— Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes
Stran 60 - We trace to Thee our joys and woes, — To Thee of causes still the cause, — We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows ; We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws. We bring no sorrows to Thy throne ; We come to Thee with no complaint ; In Providence Thy will is done, And that is sacred to the saint.
Stran 27 - What of the cradle-roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, — Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? What...
Stran 167 - I'm looking still, But naught can I see, whether good or ill, Save a flurry of dust in the distance," " Time's up! " shouted Blue Beard, out from his room ; "This moment shall witness your terrible doom, And give you a dwelling within the room Whose secrets you have invaded." "Comes there no help for my terrible need?" " There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed.
Stran 37 - So you have told me often. You have said That God is just, and I have looked around To seek the proof in human lot, in vain. The rain falls kindly on the just man's fields, But on the unjust man's more kindly still ; And I have never known the winter's blast, Or the quick lightning, or the pestilence, Make nice discriminations when let slip From God's right hand. ISRAEL. 'Tis a great mystery ; Yet God is just, and,— blessed be His name ! Is loving too. I know that I am weak, And that the pathway...
Stran 21 - Evil is only the slave of Good ; Sorrow the servant of Joy ; And the soul is mad that refuses food Of the meanest in God's employ.
Stran 71 - Weaving a neatly-ribbed basket; And, as they built up the casket, In went the pulp by the scoop-full. Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full, — Filling the half of a puncheon While the men swallowed their luncheon. Pure grew the stream with the stress Of the lever and screw, Till the last drops from the press Were as bright as the dew.
Stran 15 - His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven ; And her best gift— a maiden sweetly named — His daughter Ruth — orders the ancient house, And fills her mother's place beside the board, And cheers his life with songs and industry. But who are these who crowd the house to-night — A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who, Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours With the sweet jargon of a festival ? Who are these fathers ? who these mothers ? who...