Poems

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George Routledge & Sons, 1887 - Всего страниц: 315
 

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Стр. 237 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating In the meadows; The young birds are chirping In the nest; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; The young flowers are blowing toward the west: But the young, young children, O my brothers! They are weeping bitterly. They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Стр. 309 - But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face: He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace...
Стр. 240 - Who is God that he should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word; » And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, Hears our weeping any more? " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, « And, at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know...
Стр. 305 - Oh, our yEschylus, the thunderous, How he drove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath ! Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place, And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace ! Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres...
Стр. 239 - And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground ; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.
Стр. 238 - We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice ! it is day.
Стр. 241 - And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run: They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man without...
Стр. 309 - Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand, Till I answer, 'Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.
Стр. 238 - With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do: Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
Стр. 253 - And because he loves me so, Better than his kind will do Often, man or woman, Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men, Leaning from my Human.

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