Poems ...

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J.E. Tilton, 1869 - Всего страниц: 639
 

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Стр. 330 - That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off — at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
Стр. 367 - Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Стр. 113 - More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
Стр. 251 - Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Стр. 154 - Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices.
Стр. 441 - HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns," he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Стр. 252 - Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Стр. 34 - Skimming down to Camelot : But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.
Стр. 330 - Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off — at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. ' So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light : And with no language but a cry.
Стр. 441 - " Charge for the guns ! " he said ; Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!

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