My love she's but a lassie, by the author of 'Queenie'.

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Page 211 - HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath ; Who envies none that chance doth raise...
Page 353 - 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.
Page 49 - Tell me, where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head ? How begot, how nourished ? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell ; I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell.
Page 90 - No spirit feels waste, Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock, The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.
Page 227 - Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Page 250 - You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise?
Page 133 - thus to prefer dark night Before true light ! To live in grots and caves, and hate the day Because it shows the way, — The way which, from this dead and dark abode, Leads up to God ; A way where you might tread the sun and be More bright than he !" But, as I did their madness so discuss, One whispered thus, "This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide. But for his Bride.
Page 312 - THE FLOWER HOW fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are Thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring ; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Page 355 - The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done...
Page 258 - in the world they say; Come!' I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the...

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