Our valley, by the author of 'The children of Seeligsberg'.

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Strona 156 - No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown / Responds unto his own.
Strona 85 - I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
Strona 143 - The path of duty was the way to glory: He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 150 Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses.
Strona 211 - O well for the sailor lad. That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
Strona 182 - Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
Strona 85 - Ah, such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the springtide of joy we have known! Each wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us And leaves us at eve on the bleak shore alone.
Strona 23 - I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten 'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal.
Strona 210 - I sing. (O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. *O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. 'O...
Strona 3 - The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light!

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