Notes from Life in Seven Essays

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Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, 1853 - 197 pages
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Page 101 - For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal.
Page 139 - My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.
Page 144 - How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Page 26 - Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus.
Page 130 - O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Page 2 - Blessed is the rich that is found without blemish, And hath not gone after gold. Who is he? and we will call him blessed: For wonderful things hath he done among his people.
Page 86 - Are my torn meditation's ragged clothing, Which, wound and woven, shape a suit for nothing : One while I think, and then I am in pain To think how to unthink that thought again...
Page 28 - thou mak'st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much : ' then, being there alone, Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends ; ' 'Tis right,' quoth he ; ' thus misery doth part The flux of company : ' anon a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him ;
Page 89 - And unto man he said, Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding.
Page 118 - Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells, And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock ; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream.

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