George Routledge & Sons, 1887 - 315 páginas

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Página 237 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating In the meadows; The young birds are chirping In the nest; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; The young flowers are blowing toward the west: But the young, young children, O my brothers! They are weeping bitterly. They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Página 309 - But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face: He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace...
Página 240 - Who is God that he should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word; » And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, Hears our weeping any more? " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, « And, at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know...
Página 305 - Oh, our yEschylus, the thunderous, How he drove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath ! Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place, And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace ! Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres...
Página 239 - And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground ; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.
Página 238 - We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice ! it is day.
Página 241 - And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run: They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man without...
Página 309 - Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand, Till I answer, 'Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.
Página 238 - With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do: Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
Página 253 - And because he loves me so, Better than his kind will do Often, man or woman, Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men, Leaning from my Human.

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