The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table: Every Man His Own Boswell

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A. L. Burt Company, 1900 - Всего страниц: 310
 

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Стр. xxi - Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
Стр. 254 - The parson was working his Sunday's text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
Стр. 93 - This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell...
Стр. 93 - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Стр. 252 - Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,— In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,— lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,— Above or below, or within or without,— And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum...
Стр. 89 - HIMSELF." 1 find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving. To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it, — but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.
Стр. 64 - My listening angel heard the prayer. And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped. "But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay. While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?
Стр. 251 - HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it— ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,— Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Стр. 171 - Call him not old, whose visionary brain Holds o'er the past its undivided reign. For him in vain the envious seasons roll Who bears eternal summer in his soul.
Стр. 303 - O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

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