Bitter-sweet: A PoemC. Scribner, 1859 - 220 strani |
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angels arms beautiful blasphemy bless Blue Beard bosom breast breath brine brow CHARLES SCRIBNER chastened Christ cider crown DAVID dear death door dream durance e'en ears earth EDWARD evermore evil live eyes face faith faithless Fatima fear feet fell flame forgive friends gathered girl give God's golden hour GRACE hand happy HARVARD COLLEGE head heart Heaven husband Hush ISRAEL Jesus kiss knew light lips LOCALITY-The look Lord MARY never night Old tunes pain pale path PATIENCE pity poplar prayed prayer precious PRUDENCE quick REBEKAH roar RUTH Save secret shame sighs sleep sleet smile song 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 26 - WHAT is the little one thinking about ? Very wonderful things, no doubt ; Unwritten history ! Unfathomed mystery ! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx...
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 27 - Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony ; Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls : Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide...
Stran 43 - What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk. How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will, Chasten my passions, purify my love, And make me in some goodly sense, like Him Who bore the cross of evil, while he lived, Who hung and bled upon it when he died, And now in glory, wears the victor's crown.
Stran 20 - THE day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world ! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead; God has forgotten the 'world ! Evil has won in the horrid feud Of ages with The Throne ; Evil stands on the neck of Good, And rules the world alone.
Stran 36 - That care has iron crowns for many brows ; That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon Virtue is crucified, and nails and spears Draw guiltless blood ; that sorrow sits and drinks At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry ; That gentle spirits on the rack of pain Grow faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns ; That Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise And armed with might, lie evermore in wait Along life's path, giving assault to all — Fatal to most ; that Death stalks through the earth,...
Stran 28 - 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!
Stran 61 - ... bloom and Autumn's blight, For bending wheat and blasted maize, For health and sickness, Lord of light, And Lord of darkness, hear our praise ! 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 72 - 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.