Poems, Volumes 1-2

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E. Mathews & John Lane, 1894 - 81 pages
 

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Page 226 - These are spots in your feasts of charity, when they feast with you, feeding themselves without fear : clouds they are without water, carried about of winds ; trees whose fruit withereth, without fruit, twice dead, plucked up by the roots ; Raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame ; wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever.
Page 19 - It was not like your great and gracious ways ! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a goodbye...
Page 23 - His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet.
Page 83 - And Him I thank, who can make live again, The dust, but not the joy we once profane, That I, of ye, Beautiful habitations, auras of delight, In childish years and since had sometime sense and sight, But that ye vanish'd quite, Even from memory, Ere I could get my breath, and whisper 'See!' But did for me They altogether die, Those trackless glories glimps'd in upper sky? Were they of chance, or vain, Nor good at all again For curb of heart or fret ? Nay, though, by grace, Lest, haply, I refuse God...
Page 37 - WITH all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even...
Page 83 - Their likeness wholly I forget, Ah, yet, Often in straits which else for me were ill, I mind me still I did respire the lonely auras sweet, I did the blest abodes behold, and, at the mountains' feet, Bathed in the holy Stream by Hermon's thymy hill.
Page 5 - Power That signall'st punctual through the sleepy mould The Snowdrop's time to flower, [ Fair as the rash oath of virginity^' Which is first-love's first cry ; O, Baby Spring, That flutter'st sudden 'neath the breast of Earth A month before the birth...
Page 10 - Summer not yet seen. On every chance-mild day That visits the moist shaw, The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crost In urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost, 'Voids the time's law With still increase Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray; Often, in sheltering brakes, As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour, Primrose or violet bewilder'd wakes, And deems 'tis time to flower; Though not a whisper of her voice he hear, The buried bulb does know The signals of the year, And hails far Summer...
Page 18 - God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stir A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head— It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead! The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast A chance-found letter press'd In which she said, * So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu! Parting's well-paid with...
Page 7 - Is the One found, Amongst a wilderness of as happy grace, To make Heaven's bound; So that in Her All which it hath of sensitively good Is sought and understood After the narrow modes the mighty Heavens prefer?

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