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Charles Dudley Warner, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Lucia Isabella Gilbert Runkle, George H. Warner, Edward Cornelius Towne
R. S. Peale and J. A. Hill, 1897
 

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Страница 8512 - New mercies, each returning day, Hover around us while we pray ; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.
Страница 8500 - Ode to a Nightingale MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness...
Страница 8817 - THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Страница 8499 - She hurried at his words, beset with fears. For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. In all the house was heard no human sound. A...
Страница 8508 - BRIGHT star ! would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night. And watching, with eternal lids apart. Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores...
Страница 8499 - While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.
Страница 8499 - Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Страница 8892 - Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to him, The little gray leaves were kind to him; The thorn-tree had a mind to him When into the woods he came.
Страница 8873 - ROSE AYLMER AH, WHAT avails the sceptred race! Ah ! what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace ! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
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