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Anne answered appeared arms asked Atherstone beautiful believe bless called Catholic child Church coming course cried darling dear death door Dora Dublin Eustace eyes face Father feel felt girl give given Grace hand happy head hear heard heart holy hope hour interesting Ireland Irish John kind knew Lady Ashfield leave letter light live London looked Lord Madge Mary matter mean mind Miss morning mother nature never night once passed perhaps poor pray present priest rest round saints seemed seen sister smiling soon soul speak story strange street sure sweet Sylvia tell things thought told turned voice volume wish woman wonder young
Página 601 - And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him.
Página 296 - Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Página 477 - For winter is now past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have appeared in our land, the time of pruning is come, the voice of the turtle is heard in our land : the fig-tree hath put forth her green figs, the vines in flower yield their sweet smell. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come.
Página 99 - Unto this last as unto thee ; and when, for earth's severed multitudes of the wicked and the weary, there shall be holier reconciliation than that of the narrow home, and calm economy, where the Wicked cease — not from trouble, but from troubling — and the Weary are at rest.
Página 258 - And has he left his birds and flowers? And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours Will he not come again? And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh, while my brother with me played, Would I had loved him more.
Página 654 - May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace — Amen!
Página 357 - They only the victory win Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us...
Página 357 - I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life — The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife...
Página 367 - My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are...