Margaret: A Story of Life in a Prairie Home

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C. Scribner, 1868 - 360 oldal
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208. oldal - There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.
83. oldal - Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
70. oldal - The healing of his seamless dress Is by our beds of pain; We touch him in life's throng and press, And we are whole again.
226. oldal - Nor long summer bide so late ; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head ; ' The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said.
5. oldal - Blessing she is : God made her so, And deeds of weekday holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.
49. oldal - Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set In the world's wide fallow; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap, the harvests yellow.
226. oldal - And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might. An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers...
298. oldal - My name to me a sadness wears, No murmurs cross my mind. Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind.
12. oldal - Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart, Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.
97. oldal - For while he wrought with strenuous will The work his hands had found to do, He heard the fitful music still Of winds that out of dream-land blew.

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