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Страница 249 - 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 no other words except 'Our Father...
Страница 248 - 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!
Страница 148 - Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
Страница 150 - The Age culls simples, With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars. We are gods by our own reck'ning, and may well shut up the temples, And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. " For we throw out acclamations of self-thanking, selfadmiring, With, at every mile run faster,—' O the wondrous, wondrous age...
Страница 151 - For we throw out acclamations of selfthanking, self-admiring, With, at every mile run faster, — " O the wondrous wondrous age," Little thinking if we work our SOULS as nobly as our iron, Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage.
Страница 249 - But no,' say the children, weeping faster, ' He is speechless as a stone : And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to ! ' say the children, — ' up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we f1nd.
Страница 147 - There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own ; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the subtle interflowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's...
Страница 250 - 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, 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.
Страница 209 - Thy hound's blood, my lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel,' quoth she, ' And he moans not where he lies.
Страница 151 - If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising, If we wrapped the globe intensely with one hot electric breath, 'Twere but power within our tether, no new spirit-power comprising, And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death.