Woman in All Lands: Her Domestic, Social and Intellectual Condition, Interspersed with Strange Scenes, Customs, Romances, Etc

C.F. Roper & Company, 1880 - 505 páginas

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Página 431 - For all day the wheels are droning, turning; Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, 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, 'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 'Stop!
Página 83 - Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Página 432 - And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted...
Página 432 - IT is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying ; It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying : Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish : Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.
Página 432 - He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken, Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.
Página 431 - Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth — Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals — Let them prove their...
Página 93 - There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
Página 433 - Deserted! Who hath dreamt, that when the cross in darkness rested, Upon the victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted? What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?
Página 467 - Or where the ruddy autumn fire Lights up the apple-paring, — " The coarseness of a ruder time Her finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of pleasure fills Each rustic sport she graces. " Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it. If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it.
Página 433 - Adam's sins have swept between The righteous Son and Father — Yea ! once, Immanuel's orphaned cry, His universe hath shaken — It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am forsaken !" It went up from the Holy's lips Amid his lost creation, That of the lost, no son should use Those words of desolation...

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