Shelburne Essays: Shelburne essays

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Putnam, 1908 - American literature - 253 pages
 

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Page 253 - Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate : I am the captain of my soul.
Page 252 - How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill...
Page 240 - You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own ; What are you when the rose is blown?
Page 147 - CHAUCER. AN old man in a lodge within a park; The chamber walls depicted all around With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
Page 261 - Nature seem'd in love ; The lusty sap began to move ; Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines ; And birds had drawn their valentines. The jealous trout, that low did lie, Rose at a well-dissembled...
Page 186 - The sense that every struggle brings defeat Because Fate holds no prize to crown success ; That all the oracles are dumb or cheat Because they have no secret to express ; That none can pierce the vast black veil uncertain Because there is no light beyond the curtain ; That all is vanity and nothingness.
Page 135 - O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear ; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!
Page 148 - ... chamber walls depicted all around With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound ; He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, Then writeth in a book like any clerk. He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote The Canterbury Tales, and his old age Made beautiful with song ; and as I read I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note Of lark and linnet, and from every...
Page 151 - In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face — the face of one long dead — Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died ; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose ; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight.
Page 142 - I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love, I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted...

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