The Book of the Seasons: Or, The Calendar of Nature

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Carey & Lea, 1831 - 404 pÓgines

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PÓgina 163 - Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage and hounds...
PÓgina 55 - Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it; thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water: thou preparest them corn when thou hast so provided for it.
PÓgina 27 - He giveth snow like wool : He scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes. He casteth forth His ice like morsels : Who can stand before His cold? He sendeth out His word, and melteth them : He causeth His wind to blow, and the waters flow.
PÓgina 21 - Awake : The morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us ; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colours, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
PÓgina 55 - Thou crownest the year with thy goodness ; and thy paths drop fatness. They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks ; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.
PÓgina 111 - Come on therefore, let us enjoy the good things that are present : and let us speedily use the creatures like as in youth. Let us fill ourselves with costly wine and ointments : and let no flower of the spring pass by us : Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered...
PÓgina 245 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but nature more...
PÓgina 287 - Be thou on the earth;" likewise to the small rain, and to the great rain of his strength. He sealeth up the hand of every man ; that all men may know his work.
PÓgina 22 - O unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both.

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