Story, Essay, and Verse: Modern Prose and Poetry Selected from the Atlantic Monthly

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Charles Swain Thomas, Harry Gilbert Paul
Atlantic Monthly Press, 1921 - 394 pages
 

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Page 360 - And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.
Page 2 - Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler ; the snare is broken, and we are delivered.
Page 339 - I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference. —ROBERT FROST Chapter 2 Energy Strategy: The Road Not Taken?
Page 235 - And said, My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant...
Page 290 - I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track ; Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.
Page 18 - The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling thing before the whirlwind.
Page 339 - Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth...
Page 247 - Homer, to have written indecent things of the gods : only this my mind gave me, that every free and gentle spirit, without that oath, ought to be born a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt spur, or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder to stir him up both by his counsel and his arms, to secure and protect the weakness of any attempted chastity.
Page 359 - FEAR death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe ; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go : For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, The best and the last !...
Page 315 - Be merciful to me, a fool!" The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, "Be merciful to me, a fool!

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