Wayside Wells; Or, Thoughts from Deepdale

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Hodder and Stoughton, 1874 - 374 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 162 - Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear, It is not night if thou be near ; Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise To hide thee from thy servant's eyes.
Pàgina 161 - WHEN I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; 'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly: thousands...
Pàgina 280 - Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird : but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
Pàgina 292 - A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Pàgina 292 - Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in...
Pàgina 289 - I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ; Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine...
Pàgina 46 - So shall my walk be close with God, Calm and serene my frame ; So purer light shall mark the road, That leads me to the Lamb.
Pàgina 86 - BLEST are the pure in heart, For they shall see our God ; The secret of the Lord is theirs ; Their soul is Christ's abode.
Pàgina 267 - Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines ; I only see — a dream within a dream — The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own. There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen. And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain? The unfinished...
Pàgina 292 - Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.

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