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Strona 264 - That our sons may be as plants Grown up in their youth ; That our daughters may be as corner-stones, Polished after the similitude of a palace...
Strona 139 - SUNSET and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
Strona 260 - So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Strona 143 - Jourdain when he heard that he had been speaking " prose" all his life without knowing it.
Strona 139 - One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.
Strona 139 - AT the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where - by death, fools think, imprisoned Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, - Pity me? Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel -Being -who? One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds...
Strona 142 - Johnson's ; and doing this with his peculiar sense of the world ever in view, in search of an instrument for the adequate expression of that, he begets a vocabulary faithful to the colouring of his own spirit, and in the strictest sense original.
Strona 28 - Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil. Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they...
Strona 411 - I am going to my Father's, and though with great difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the Trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my Pilgrimage, and my Courage and Skill to him that can get it.