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Página 237 - Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing, The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea; And laden souls, by thousands meekly stealing, Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to thee.
Página 175 - Do you question the young children in the sorrow Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they...
Página 176 - how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, O goldheaper, And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath.
Página 176 - They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity ! " How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart? Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation. And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ! Our blood splashes upward...
Página 176 - And the walls turn in their places. Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, ' 0 ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) ' Stop ! be silent for to-day...
Página 176 - 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. ' For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning — Their wind comes in our faces, — Till our hearts turn — our head, with pulses burning.
Página 236 - And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng. The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene ; The pastures of the blessed Are decked in glorious sheen.
Página 176 - we are weary, And we cannot run or leap ; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 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 167 - Though joy be done with and grief be vain, Time shall not sever us wholly in twain; Earth is not spoilt for a single shower; But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn.
Página 34 - STAGE LOVE WHEN the game began between them for a jest, He played king and she played queen to match the best ; Laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter, These were things she sought for years and sorrowed after. Pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night ; All the sting and all the stain of long delight ; These were things she knew not of, that knew not of her, When she played at half a love with half a lover. Time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry ; They would...